Invictus
by twistedservice
Summary: You wanted to play this game, did you not? You wanted to play this game - now you can lose it. Let the Last Reckoning commence.
1. Confession

Prologue, Part One.

* * *

"My pain is constant and sharp...this confession has meant nothing."  
— from " _American Psycho_ ," Bret Easton Ellis

* * *

 **Atlas Mervaine, 18  
DEZ: Independence, California**

* * *

History was always bound to repeat itself.

Trust Mrs. Crawley to never give up on her blind optimism and trust his parents to find the only teacher still in her eighties that hasn't crawled her way into retirement.

She was nice. Usually. A bit crabby, if you asked him, but no one would.

He's the only Capitol-born kid in this class, one of four in the entire school. It doesn't help that one of them's his little sister. There's maybe twenty in the entirety of Independence, and half of that is the family who runs the mayor's office. Most of the people here are stragglers from One, or from the opposite side of the country.

Anything to get away.

He thought that was why they ended up here. Most of the city's existing population doesn't even know his father is here. Their nearest neighbor is a mile and a half away. His mother drives the two of them here, and does everything, and moves all on her own, until she gets back home.

He thought that being here would make all of this easier.

Atlas remembers the war. Not very much of it. He's only ever seen them breaking out of the arena twice, once when they were hiding out in Six, and again three years later, when his dad was up at four in the morning watching it on his own.

The results wound up better than he expected. The family's fine. The father he thought was dead wasn't. Nine kids that were his age now broke out of the arena, and still live to this day.

Somewhere, anyway. They don't show their faces much.

Atlas wishes he had that luxury.

No one here is outright malicious. That's part of the problem.

He may have been young, when the entire world went down nine years ago, but the ripple effect is still spreading.

It's the curse of a last name, of being the child of two former Head Gamemakers. Of everyone around him knowing who he is, and what his mother did, and who she killed. For the most part, people stay away from him. The worst part is, people from the Capitol hardly stand out anymore. They don't go around flaunting themselves like they used to, perhaps clinging to a head of brightly colored hair or sleeves full of tattoos, but not much more. He himself looks completely normal. Like a kid bred and born in the Districts, the same stock as everyone else.

But he still sticks out, against his own wishes. Perhaps that's his sister's fault, his sister and the evergreen flowing over her shoulders, worn like it's something to be proud of. Even the government got them set up here, he suspects, to keep them away from the largest city centers. The Districts are off-limits to them, and any city with a population bigger than two-thousand.

If you ask him, which he wishes someone would, even two-thousand is too many.

He experiences two thousand daily. Lives it.

And it's awful.

"Atlas."

He's zoned out ten times since this last class started – Crawley was bound to catch him eventually. She's staring at him now, as is the entire class.

"What do you remember of the Titans?"

"More than most people," he responds, which is clearly not the answer she was looking for, or expecting. "I know they're all dead except for Carnelia Trevall, because they let her go and then no one ever found her."

The Sentinels don't scare him. They were an army, created and then killed by the Capitol. A group of warmongers, save for a special few, who nearly set the entire country on fire just to laugh in the ashes of it. They almost destroyed Two. They almost destroyed everything.

And his father was one – almost. But no one here knows that.

No one here would believe him, either.

It doesn't matter. There's only one group left, and Prometheus has all but disappeared too. There's others, too. Names that weren't on the recovered list when the Capitol did their body count.

They're all out there, somewhere. Waiting.

Crawley is still staring him. She does that a lot.

It's a battle she knows she won't win, if she really wants him to answer. He knows more about the war than she ever will.

"I've gone over your applications to our mock version of the New Haven Program," she says, and diverts her eyes. "You were graded on the amount of effort you put into your application. Though obviously fake, and none of you were accepted due to the fact that the _majority_ of you were born in the Districts, some of you were graded very highly based on the information you provided."

"How does anyone still think this is a good idea?" Argent mutters from behind him.

"I think it would've been fun," Nerine says, to his right. "To learn all about that and experience it. You don't think that'd be cool?"

"I like being alive," Argent points out, and she glares at him.

"They're not _killing_ anyone," she fires back. "It's like a summer program. They're gonna do mock training and everything. And then a Games simulation, I heard. They only took the best twenty-four Capitol applicants from the whole country. That's prestigious. It would look so good on a university application. I wish they would have let everyone apply, not just Capitol kids."

A university application, of all things. He hadn't even thought of it like that. Crawley passes by and drops envelopes on all of their desks.

There's a bright red 65 on his, which is better than he expected. There's a 98 on Nerine's, and a 52 on Argent's.

"School is horseshit," he says a second later, when he notices Atlas staring. "I'm shocked they're not intimidated into giving you straight A's."

Sometimes they are. Mr. Weston gives him good marks third period regardless of if he shows up or not. But Crawley's not like that. When you're two hundred years old, you probably don't get intimidated very easily.

Besides, he knows exactly what the number is for. The application was pretty basic, until the last page. He can't help but wonder how similar it is to the real thing. Name, date of birth, what region of the Capitol you were born in (if applicable). The last page delves deeper – asking about your knowledge of the Games, talking about history. It took him hours to fill out.

It's the last thing that got him – reason for applying.

He can think of a dozen reasons Capitol kids across the country will have written down, if it's really on the form. Maybe not - that's too much honesty to lay in the hands of people they don't even know. Maybe, like Nerine, they think it will get them into a better school. Maybe there's someone out there who really genuinely cares about their history and wants to learn about it, to immortalize all the tributes that died.

Maybe there's someone out there who just wants to understand.

The war's over. There's nothing to understand. The Capitol spent 160 years killing 3,672 people in arenas. That's it, the entire basis behind it.

Now it's nine years since then, since the Titans fell and they took their world back, and everything's changed.

For most people, anyway. Not for him.

He could have tried harder. He could have been one of the twenty-four, if he had the courage to actually send the application off. They would have swooped him off to some sort of simulation, far away from Independence. But there's a reason he left that entire last section blank, why Crawley circled it with one giant swoop of red pen, pointing out how empty it is like he wasn't already aware of that when he handed it in.

He doesn't need to learn about the Games.

He knows enough. He knows more than most people do.

There's nothing else he needs to know.

* * *

What's up, losers. I'm fresh off an eleven hour work shift, have to work the next two days, and kinda wanna die, but what else is new! There's no getting off this ride!

Welcome to the fourth SYOT that wasn't supposed to be, after I wrote and finished a supposed trilogy. Let's just call this the spinoff. You don't need to read those to understand this one, because I'll try and explain as much as I can along the way, but if you ever have any questions I don't get to, feel free to ask.

Also, I do a lot of weird (read: murderous) shit and take a lot of creative liberties. If that's not your thing, I recommend not submitting.

This is a completely non-traditional SYOT that will be accepting **Capitol kids.** The form, along with some other details and rules, can be found on my profile. You are welcome to submit as many as you'd like, but chances are only one will be accepted. And if you do want to submit more than one, I ask that you keep it contained to one obviously-titled PM for the sake of my own sanity. If you have any questions that aren't clarified on my profile or you need some help, feel free to ask me!

Looking forward to all the submissions.

Until next time.


	2. Pandora's Box

Prologue, Part Two.

* * *

"They gave Pandora a box. Prometheus begged her not to open it. She opened it. Every evil to which human flesh is heir came out of it. The last thing to come out of the box was hope. It flew away."  
— from " _Timequake_ ," Kurt Vonnegut

* * *

 **Pandora Quinn, 29  
Member of the New Haven Federation**

* * *

Every time the Federation meets someone gets angry.

You'd think a group of people hand-chosen by their individual Districts would get along better, but apparently not. Or maybe that just has to do with her presence, as the thirteenth member. Maybe if she wasn't here they would all sing songs and hold hands.

Or maybe not.

Capitol blood still scares people, nine years later. It scared people back then, too. Worse, it killed them - a perfectly executed civil war ignited when Cambria Mervaine broke nine children out of the last arena she never made and left the President dead in her office. If that hadn't happened her father wouldn't have had to take the mantle himself, wouldn't have gotten a bullet in the head courtesy of one Carnelia Trevall, still considered a missing persons.

Not that anyone minds that status, least of all her.

Pandora's very aware that she does not belong in this group. She fought for seven years to get the Capitol a spot in this group. They were a part of this too, cause or not. They deserved to have a say in the biggest decisions this country would make.

So she fought, and she won.

That doesn't mean any single one of them has to like her.

Or talk to her. Or look at her.

Or even pretend she exists.

Wendell and Eilon had been at her for weeks, when they came up with the Project, insistent that it wasn't necessary. There was no need to dredge up the Games nine years later, when everyone had finally started moving past them, especially not to teach Capitol kids about their history. There were better ways to do that. Classes. Workshops.

Though she guessed this was kind of a workshop as well.

It was rather simple, really. Tomorrow they would announce the chosen applicants and arrange transportation, in order to move them all to the complex. There they would be split into groups, and would spend their week learning about the Games. The good, the bad, the ugly. It would serve as a lesson. A lesson that would continue for years to come, provided it went well.

And she was sure it would. The decision hadn't been an easy one. The Games, even a mention of them, would set people off. She had spent months agonizing over the decision, watched it spread all over the news.

She had finally made her choice - _yes_. Seven to six in the Federation.

The closest they had ever come in a vote.

The hostility had died down, since the vote. But today they had chosen the applicants and locked them in.

The hostility was back again.

She has the folder tucked tight under her arm, filled with the applications of the twenty-four children who would have their lives changed in a matter of days.

Unfortunately, she doesn't make it very far.

Eriska was walking up behind her, and she could still move just as fast as anyone despite her age. The older woman had a firm but gentle hand on her arm before she could round the next corner.

"Do you feel better, now that we've chosen?"

She pauses. "I'm confident in the decision. I have been since I voted."

"And I'm not. I told you this wouldn't end well, and I still believe that. Waylon and Jordan got under your skin, put ideas in your head. They're still whispering. You may have been watching them get reaped a few years ago, had the war not gone the way it did. And you feel the need to trust them?"

"I was not _influenced_ —"

"That may be what you believe, dear, but you're young. There was no changing Nyle's or Ophira's minds about this, and God knows I can't blame Leopold if he hopes to incite something, but you? There were better ways to do this. You and Kestrel both."

She's not here to get lectured. Eriska is looking out for her; she knows and believes this whole-heartedly.

But the fact of the matter is there's no changing it now. No matter who wishes that was so.

"We can't re-vote now. The announcement is tomorrow."

"I'm aware of that. But what we can do is keep this situation locked down. We've chosen the instructors, the location, but we need to make sure we have it under control."

"You think someone will try and pull something?" she asks.

"That's what I fear, not what I believe," Eriska says. "The fact of the matter is, you take twenty-four kids out during another summer, death or not - fear spreads. And people just might believe that something is happening when it's not."

"And what if something is happening?"

Eriska shakes her head. "It's not. Keep an eye on Jordan and Waylon. Kestrel too. And tomorrow, if someone reacts differently than what we're expecting, we watch."

And wait. That's what her father did, before he died for it. Sat, and watched, and waited.

And died.

Eriska squeezes her arm. Despite their differences, Eriska has never tried to make her feel like an outcast. Where Leopold makes no secret of his disdain, where Marza and Scarlet and Rocco all avoid her eye, she has never done any of that.

"Watch," she repeats. "Watch, and hope that your vote which pushed us to the brink doesn't tip us over the edge once again."

That's not how this will go. She makes herself repeat the words. The applicants are chosen. Everything is set in place, and it's going to go perfectly. They'll learn, and they'll embrace the history that shaped them into who they are today. They'll remember when some people refuse to.

They'll remember, because Pandora cannot hope to forget.

* * *

Meet Pandora, the eldest child of the now deceased shortest term Vice President ever. She's very tired. As am I.

Submissions are still open, there's still a few ideas I'm leaning towards that I could really use so if you're interested in maximizing your chances maybe hit me up? Especially if you've submitted an older one and only an older one. The final list and blog will go up with the next chapter. Currently my list is shaping up amazingly though. I'm super happy with it, so big thanks to you guys.

Until next time.


	3. Liar Liar

Prologue, Part Three.

* * *

"I am the master of my fate:  
I am the captain of my soul."  
\- from " _Invictus_ ," Robert Ernest Henley

* * *

 **Khia Rhodelle, 32  
Formerly of District Twelve**

* * *

"Why are we here?"

Khia wasn't deigned with an answer. No surprise there.

To be honest, Khia didn't even know where _here_ was. Somewhere in what is once again Arizona, not far from the Mexican border. At least that she recognized. That's where they had been the past nearly nine years, after all, after the entire lot of them had congregated somewhere outside of Ten and decided they needed to disappear for a while.

Or, at least one of them did. The rest of them had been doing pretty good at disappearing, until she came along.

Mexico had seemed like the best solution to their problems. It was mostly desert, now. Not much of the jungle left, after what had happened to the world. But it hadn't been terrible.

"You've heard all about what they've been broadcasting the past six months."

"Of course. Sharmyn never shuts up about it."

There was silence between them again, but Khia was used to it.

"Is that why we're here?"

She watched. Waited. Nothing.

"If you're planning on intervening—"

"Why do you think we're here?"

"The last time you intervened in something you almost died. Or do you not remember that?"

Of course she couldn't forget that. That's where Khia got lucky. She ran so far into the woods after the 155th that only one person had ever found her, and he had made the mistake of letting her go. The others had been years after that. Kids when it had happened, fractured adults by the time they had all come together. It was a miracle any of them had survived at all, broken little Sentinels like toy dolls, unable to be patched back up.

Khia's not sure the woman standing in front of her really survived, though. Which at least keeps it consistent in the family bloodlines.

"Is this about what Flora told you?"

It has to be. There's no other answer as to why this is happening, and why it's happening now. They wouldn't be coming back nine years after everything ended to get themselves involved in something if there wasn't some sort of ulterior motive behind it all.

"If that's what this is, stop thinking about it. You don't know that Flora's right. Even the estimate could be wrong. And for all I know right now you're lying to me about it. Lying to all of us, just to get us to agree to this."

"When have I ever lied to you, K?"

Never. That's the worst part. Khia's been lied to so many times in the past that she questions every little thing, now, every single word someone says to her. Maybe that's what kept her alive, when it really came down to it. And maybe it's what will keep her alive now, but she's doubting it. If they're really doing this, intervening in something that has yet to even really begin, then she has no idea what will become of her.

"Do you have a plan?"

"Don't I always have a plan?"

She always has a plan, that's true, except for the words that Flora apparently told her, when no one was looking. Maybe that's what this is about. Guns blazing, go in as hard as she can, before she—

If that's really it, then Khia has a hope of understanding it. She might feel the same way, if their positions were reversed.

"Alright," she says. "I'm in."

"That was easy."

"That's what you wanted, right? So I'm in. Let's do it."

"Why do I get the feeling you're lying to me right now?"

They question each other a lot. That's just how it is. It took a while for Khia to start firing it right back at her. Years, even. This is the woman that pulled them all out of the woods and the mountains and the plains and gave them purpose again, gave them orders when that's all they knew what to respond to. If anyone saw her, she'd be dead. They'd be leaderless once again.

Or maybe it really would fall to Khia, then.

But she's unwilling to let that happen. More unwilling to let their leader fall, than lead herself.

Which means she's in. Whether she likes it or not.

Khia smiles. "When have I ever lied to you, Carnelia?"

* * *

thelastreckoning . blogspot . com

* * *

 **Final Applicants:  
** Faye Ackerman, 12.  
Topher Westmoreland, 12.  
Damas Mancer, 13.  
Verity Alameda, 13.  
Jupiter Valens, 14.  
Caiman Mangle, 15.  
Kidava Vaud, 15.  
Sabre Hennedige, 15.  
Noelani Westmoreland, 16.  
Gideon Mallory, 16.  
Jahaira Aurelion, 16. **  
**Isperia Martorell, 16.  
Tarquin Vierra, 16.  
Percius Marigold, 17.  
Meris Loucare, 17.  
Icarus Devereux, 17.  
Emmi Langlois, 17.  
Nicator Selton, 17.  
Jupiter Valentine, 18.  
Soran Faerber, 18.  
Myra Callaghan-Alistair, 18.  
Arwen Paoul, 18.  
Meliodas Vergara, 18.  
Trojan Geomantra, 18.

* * *

I made a Discord server yesterday to talk about this nonsense, among other nonsense. The link is on my profile if you want it.

Anyway, yes, there are two Jupiter's who have more of a similar surname than I even realized. Yes, there are two people with the same surname. No, it was not an accident.

There's more than just the 'tributes' on the blog, so everyone's aware. If anyone wants to get a look at any other faces, consider clicking on some of the other tabs. Thought I would keep everyone confined to one blog for everyone's sake.

Also, applicant number on the blog doesn't mean anything. It's purely for aesthetic's sake.

Everything else ... well, you'll see. I'll let you know when something's updated, no matter what it may be, but it'll be a while before then.

Friendly reminder to go take a nap instead of unnecessarily shitting on any one tribute's blog post if you're in the mood for a blog review. If you're angry at anything, it's most likely my doing anyway. I chose the pictures, tinkered with the strengths, weaknesses and locations; go easy on each other and each other's characters, please.

As always, massive apologies to those who didn't get a tribute into this. It was a tough decision, as it's been the previous three times, and there's no hard feelings to anyone that didn't make it in. I had to do a lot of tough shuffling towards the end in order to get a list that I thought I could best work with. And a super big thank-you to everyone that helped me get such a wonderful, diverse cast. I'm so proud of how beautiful they are (and you!).

I'd like a bit of time to plan and tinker some more, so ... I'll see you on the 26th for the first set of intros.

Until next time.


	4. Lonely At The Top

I.

* * *

 **Faye Ackerman, 12  
Applicant #7**

* * *

"This is _bullshit_!"

"Esma, language!"

Faye couldn't help it - the smile that grew on her face in that moment was so large she expected it to split her cheeks in two. Her sister's voice had carried all the way up the stairs and into her room, door cracked open. Waiting.

Her name on the television caused a reaction downstairs, and less so in her own room. Here she lies, lounging like she just woke up, hands propped behind her head, smiling. On-screen Pandora Quinn moves onto the next name but she can't wipe the stupid, satisfied smile off her face as Esma continues crowing downstairs like she was just handed the world's largest injustice on a silver platter.

Her sister: tall, beautiful, eighteen year old Esma, has just been wronged.

There's a crash as her door bounces off the wall behind it and she finally allows her smile to fall away. Nicolette frames herself in the doorway, hands on hips. Nolan is towering behind her and Tobias, she predicts, must be waiting just on the stairs.

"How the hell did _you_ get picked and not any of us?" Nicolette asks incredulously.

"I'm sure there's still a chance one of you got picked as well—"

"A fat fucking chance," Nolan scoffs. "Like they're going to let two people from the same family go. That seems a little unfair."

"Unfair _how?"_ Nicolette asks. "It's not the Hunger Games. This isn't something siblings can help each other with."

 _And it won't be_ , her brain whispers as the announcement finishes up. No more Ackerman's to be found on the list it seems. She's the only one. As it would be. Nolan's probably right - there would be some level of unfairness in all of this, if two of them had gone. Unfairness to the rest of the hundreds of kids out there who had applied, anyway. Not that she cares much.

Nicolette departs with a roll of the eyes and Nolan follows suit without so much of a goodbye, muttering something under his breath. No doubt off to conspire with Esma about how to switch places with her before the day actually arrives. She waits, patiently, until Tobias throws himself on the bed beside her, sending her rocking about. She pushes her glasses back up to their proper spot.

"Congrats, sis," he says, though she suspects even with him there's some sort of underlying jealously. "Have some fun for the rest of us poor souls stuck here with mom and dad."

Being stuck with mom and dad isn't a bad thing she knows, but there's only so many opportunities here. They're all at the top of their respective classes, or at least close to it in Esma's case, but besides their parents work there isn't much to get excited about in Stratford. Chances are all five of them will end up spread out across Panem in adulthood, doing the most they can. The Program was a chance at something bigger than they are finally. A chance to make their mark.

"Thank-you," she answers. "I'm glad at least one person is happy for me."

"Oh, dad is plenty happy," he says. "But I think he's stuck dealing with Esma for the moment. Mom too. Dinner tonight is going to be a disaster. Talk about an elephant in the room."

Inch by inch the smile returns. She knows Tobias is right - if she even breathes a word of her success across the dinner table she'll get a handful of mashed potatoes tossed at her by _someone_ , let it be Esma or not. Maybe that would make anyone falter, but of all the awkwardness festering inside her when it comes to her family she's grown used to it. In this household you adapt or you get left in the dust.

"Seriously, thank-you," she repeats. "I know you wanted to go too."

He shrugs. "Eh. At least one of us is going. Better than none. Just make sure to remember every little thing that happens so you can entertain me when you get back. I'll probably need it."

She'll probably need a novel to remember the things she's going to experience over those several days, but for Tobias, the only person who seems to care in this moment, she'll have no problem doing that. It'll be something for her to hold onto in the future for herself too, something to look back on when she finally moves to adulthood. Something to tell people about when their eyes grow large with curiosity.

She hears the footsteps tromping up the stairs over the sounds of the broadcast finally fading away. Mom would be much quieter and Dad would announce his presence; there's only one person it could possibly be, and they both know it. Tobias turns towards her, mock terror in the way his mouth falls open, and she stifles a giggle. A second later Esma stops in the hall outside her door. Not blocking it the way Nicolette had. Not making a go at getting closer.

Her sister stares for a very long moment, one that gets more awkward by the second.

"Problem?" Tobias asks.

This time she _does_ giggle, no hope at hiding it, and Esma's face turns sour.

"God, wipe that smile off your face, troll. It's not funny. No one's laughing."

"Haha," Tobias says exaggeratedly, which sends her into a fit of laughter. She flops back into pillows, hand over her mouth, but the damage is done. Esma opens her mouth several times only to grind her teeth back together, stomping off down the hall like she's got a vendetta against the floor.

Tobias pokes her in the ribs. "You're an idiot, you know that, right?"

In front of her, Pandora announces two different names, both with the same surname, but she's laughing too hard to hear her.

And she very well may be an idiot, but at least she's the idiot that got into the Program when none of her other siblings did.

At least she's the idiot on top.

* * *

 **Percius Marigold, 17  
Applicant #2**

* * *

There's really only one major issue with him being an early riser, and it's the aspect of being _quiet._

Any other morning and it wouldn't matter much, but he knows Saturday is one of the few days that his moms actually get to sleep in without disturbance from work or something else. Who cares if the word quiet doesn't make many rotations around his vocabulary; he can learn.

Besides, the official announcement is eight in the morning sharp, on practically every news channel in existence, and like hell he's going to miss that because of sleep. Who really needs it, anyway?

It would come as a surprise to no one to see him perched on the edge of the coffee table fifteen minutes to, unsure of what else to do. The only noise save for the faint murmur of the television is the coffee steadily brewing in the kitchen, not nearly fast enough. He needed it preferably an hour ago, but hyping himself up that much before six probably wasn't the solution.

He's going to start getting jittery regardless of what he drinks, anyway.

"Oh, that's today?"

He's not surprised to see one of his mom's already awake, despite the day off. She looks bleary-eyed, more than he ever feels, but alert enough that she clearly recognizes his stance in front of the television as something important.

"Obviously," he responds. "Why do you think I'm awake so early?"

"You're always awake this early, sweetheart," she reminds him. "Sit on the couch, please. You're going to strain your eyes."

He gets up, albeit reluctantly, and places himself on the couch at her request. She slides a mug full of coffee into his nervous, jittery hands, already stirring at her own. Every time the spoon _clinks_ against the edge of her cup he wants to pull it out of her hands and throw it across the room. The noise is so distracting he almost can't hear the television, and if he doesn't hear it—

"You're going to a summer program, not becoming the President," she says.

"You don't _know_ I'm going," he fires back, and finally pulls the spoon out of her hands, rolling it anxiously in his palm. After a moment she pulls it back from him, shaking her head.

"Positive thinking."

If only she knew. He finds he doesn't care much about her knowing when the official banner of the Federation flashes on the screen. He knew it was going to be Pandora Quinn presenting the names to the public, but seeing her step onto the stage ratchets everything up tenfold. He's going to know any second now, and doesn't know whether to be sick or to scream. Scream, usually. Loudly, and often, at everyone and everything.

Pandora Quinn doesn't even announce a name from the Capitol until halfway through, and he nearly gives up.

"From the Capitol..."

"Told you," his mom says.

"Percius Marigold."

"How?" he asks incredulously. "How did you—"

"Mother's intuition," she answers simply. "Congrats, sweetheart."

Congratulations, absolutely, but it's not his name he cared about hearing. There's no point in hearing his name at all if he doesn't hear another one. It's not like he ever even really cared about the Games; no one in this household ever had. Maybe that's blasphemy, or something awful. But it's the truth.

Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one. No Capitol names that ring like the one he wants to hear.

"From the Capitol... Nicator Selton."

He nearly _does_ scream but manages to wrangle it back in, and all that comes up is a strangled squeak. He claps his hand over his mouth even as it escapes, and his mother turns to look at him, one eyebrow raised. A skill he hasn't quite figured out himself.

"You know him?"

"No," he answers quickly.

The look on her face doesn't change. "Hm. Sure you don't."

She takes a very exaggerated sip of her coffee, and he's sure it burns but she doesn't even flinch. She also won't stop looking him in the eyes, either, and if she really does have mother's intuition than she's figuring all of this out rather quickly. Quicker than he wanted her to, at any rate. He knows it doesn't matter, that she wouldn't care, but it's the principle of her knowing. She probably wouldn't be so quick to congratulate him if she really knew. Of course they've always been supportive, more supportive than a lot of parents would be. From the second he was born, to the day they drove him down to the registration office to get his name officially changed, to this moment right now - nothing would really matter to them.

"I heard a very odd noise," his other mom says, making it down the last of the stairs as if on cue.

"That was just our son finding out he's going to be spending a few days with the boy he likes at the Program."

" _Mother_ ," he forces out. He doesn't go red, not ever, but the tips of his ears are burning. The two of them both look like they want to clap excitedly, no surprise there, identical grins on their faces, and God does he love them and their support but it's too early for all of this.

"Aw, I'm very happy for you love," she says, coming up behind the couch and kissing at the top of his head. "Is he nice?"

"Of course he's nice," he insists. Too nice, if you asked Percy. So nice that he couldn't help it, that he probably would never be able to put up with Percy's bullshit, not ever. So nice that Percy had a big, stupid fat crush on him and had just signed a few days of his life away for it regardless of the chances he really had.

But that didn't matter now. He was going. He didn't care about anyone else there.

He hadn't applied for everyone else, after all.

* * *

 **Arwen Paoul, 18  
Applicant #1**

* * *

There is only one thing Arwen loathes more than a girl that wastes her time, and that was a _boy_ that wastes her time.

It was one thing if they were at least slightly interesting, but Penbrook was not. She was only calling him Penbrook in the first place because he had introduced himself an hour ago, and it had went in one ear and out the other. It was Mishal, or Magnus, or Mellan. Something that started with an _M_ , that much she was certain of.

But it looks good to be wandering around on the arm of the Mayor's son when her father was so important to the office itself; that was the only reason she even knew his last name. At least Mayor Penbrook was a memorable sort of fellow, unlike his son. They had to be from one of the outer Districts, judging by the things he was whispering to her. Not that she could remember that either.

There was not nearly enough champagne in her mimosa to get her through the morning.

"I think we should go out after this," Mishal says, low enough that she's the only one that can hear in the midst of the bustling front hall.

"We'll see," she answers, and takes a huge gulp of orange juice to wash down the creeps. "If I get picked, I don't think I'll have the time."

"I'll just have to hope you don't get picked, then. What's a girl like you want to do with the Games, anyway?"

She nearly kicks him in the shin, even as he turns away to Mr. Bertucci as he went breezing by with his newest wife. "Getting away from you would be reason enough."

"What?" he asks, turning back to her, and she shakes her head, keeping silent in order to take another gulp.

Arwen hadn't caught sight of one her friends in a while, and was beginning to grow nauseous. If Mellan said one more vaguely suggestive thing to her before noon she was going to toss the leftover pulp of her mimosa at his face. The last time they had come downstairs Cahira had snorted into her own drink at the look on Arwen's face, and last she had seen Uri they had been just off the kitchen, but both of them had disappeared. Traitorous bitches, the whole lot of them.

The announcement had to be soon, at least. Magnus had to let go of her at some point, or lead her to the room with the biggest television in it.

Or maybe he wouldn't, consider how badly he apparently wanted to go out with her.

She wouldn't lie; it was nice to have someone focus this much attention on her. But God, why did it have to be him? She would have preferred anyone else, no matter age or gender. Hell, she was about tempted to go running off in search of one of her parents. At least that way she could be certain of what was about to come out of one or both of their mouths.

"Would you go get me another drink?" she asks him. He eyes her half-full glass, so she downs the rest of it as quickly as she can. He quickly uncurls his arm from hers and disappears into the thickest of the crowd. At this point she wasn't even sure where a television was, or why she had agreed to enter into this hell-scape in the first place.

To be honest, she wasn't even sure what time it was. Chances are Penbrook had made her miss it anyway.

She glances behind her, where the idiot had headed off, and starts in the opposite direction. She finds a drink tray in less than ten seconds, quickly scooping up another and walking off with it before anyone could tell her not to. If someone was supposed to be monitoring the underage drinking at whatever event the Mayor was even supposed to be having, they were doing a miserable job of it.

Someone shouts just behind her and then takes one of her hands. She nearly yanks away, thinking that Penbrook had grown awfully ballsy in their short time apart, but quickly stops.

"Sorry, dearest Winnie," Karamo says. "Fuckers are getting awfully pushy in here. Where did you get that from?"

She had already lost track of the tray, so she took a sip and then handed it to him. No one else would be getting it, but Karamo seemed to have special privileges that way. Either she gave it to him, or he'd take it from her hands. No one else would dare.

"I can't believe you all left me alone with Penbrook."

"Who?" he asks, wincing at the drink. "Fuck, I forgot how bad orange juice tasted. Are you talking about Marquis?"

"Is _that_ his name?" she asks incredulously, and her friend snorts. Well, at least she had been right about the M. She hadn't been right about much else, apparently.

"C'mon, he's not that bad," Karamo insists. "He could be uglier."

"He could be better-looking too."

"Touché."

It's not like it matters, anyway. She wasn't planning on talking to him ever again. To be honest, she wouldn't have been talking to him in the first place, if his sister was the single one wandering around. Sometimes things just didn't work out perfectly.

"Winnie!" someone shouts. "Winnie, Winnie!"

She knew the voice almost instantly, but it took a very long moment full of shoving before Evora came stumbling out of the crowd, sloshing orange juice everywhere. "They just said your name on the television!"

Karamo took a very exaggerated sip of _her_ drink, despite his initial disgust. Well, that could mean only one thing then, couldn't it? There were more people than just Evora looking at her. Someone else must have heard the news. That, or Evora's shouting. She was by far the loudest one in the vicinity. If they had said her name on the television, then she knew exactly what it had been for.

"Congrats on the summer vacation, Win," Karamo says. "Did you want this back?"

She rolls her eyes. Evora was laughing - laughing and laughing and laughing, like it had been her name announced. A few people in the vicinity were clapping like she had just been awarded the Presidency. Karamo, for his part, didn't seem to care much. That was their thing, though. There was little point in caring about more than a few things at once.

He didn't look surprised, either. She didn't feel it. It was like she had been waiting for weeks now to hear her name called, like she heard it whispered in her sleep.

There was never any doubt. They were going to announce her.

And now they had.

* * *

 **Kidava Vaud, 15  
Applicant #19**

* * *

If Kidava could have framed the acceptance letter, she would have.

She doesn't think any of the teachers at Ridgeview High would appreciate her bringing something considered a blunt weapon to the school, least of all Mr. Ungaro, who gives her a look the second she walks into the classroom.

There's still seven minutes to the bell, a fact she knows all too well. School is out next week, though, and no one cares what time it is anymore. There's a handful of teenagers already milling around the classroom, talking about their weekend plans. Their summer plans.

And she's got her first one in her hand.

She unfolds the letter and slaps it down on the desk of one Antonia Amaury-Frey, who had already been eyeballing her from the start.

"So, I guess that dare worked out in my favor, huh?"

"Or mine," she fires back. "Considering I won't have to deal with you the last week of school now."

She couldn't remember what exactly Antonia had said all those weeks ago, after weeks of Kidava trying to explain to her just what her Uncle Antonius did wrong in the Games. A trained Career from Two, six foot three two hundred pounds, dead when the scrawny, underfed pair from Six ambushed him and slit his throat ten minutes after the bloodbath.

The hundred and forty-third had been a mess from the start.

Antonius Frey was a large cause of that. She just wanted to make sure Antonia knew it, too.

"Don't you have anything better to do, Kidava?" Laela Moakler asks, leaning around Antonia's shoulder. "Like fuck off back to the Capitol for a week or so?"

"Oh, I will be," Kidava answers. "I just thought everyone should know first."

"We _knew_ ," Antonia insists. "You can go away now."

Kidava flops down into the seat next to hers instead, picking her acceptance letter back up. It's not her seat, but whoever it belongs to doesn't appear to be here yet. If they are, they're wisely choosing to stay away from it. If they bother showing up at all she'd be surprised. If she didn't have this letter to rub in Antonia's face, she probably wouldn't have showed up either. She's got packing to do, after all.

There needs to be room left in her bags, though. There's always a chance she finds something off on her trip that she hasn't seen before, something her grandmother hasn't been able to provide her. Secret footage from one of the Games, a history textbook banned elsewhere around the Districts.

There has to be something worthwhile hiding away there.

"Do you think I'll have as wonderful of a time away as your Uncle did?" she asks.

Antonia's hands tighten around the edges of her desk, but she keeps her mouth shut. It's Laela who's looking angrier by the second, but anger can only do so much. She's short. Thin. Wouldn't have a _chance_ in any sort of situation where she had to stand up to anyone, let alone fight.

She doesn't have the strategies.

"God, I can't wait until you're gone," Laela mutters under her breath.

"Neither can I," she replies and kicks back in her chair, flattening the letter out. It really is nothing special, not upon reading it. It's the secret meaning behind it all that gets her going. That makes her truly wonder what the world has in store for her outside of Two.

Don't get her wrong - Two isn't the worst of places to live. But it's barren of anything she _wants_. The training Academy's are closed. They tore down what was left of the Victor's Village years ago.

She's got nothing but the tapes her grandmother seemingly produces out of nowhere and the old, outdated history textbooks Mr. Ungaro won't let them take home. What point is there to that, when their history classes are short enough as is?

Slowly more and more people are beginning to trickle into the classroom as the clock ticks closer to eight-thirty, right on the dot. She scoops up her bag and lets the letter brush against the flyaways of Antonia's hair as she heads to her own desk, right near the back corner. Laela scowls and mutters something else, a few obscenities that grow quieter as Mr. Ungaro takes to his feet, preparing to start the day.

No one seems near as thrilled as she feels. No one even seems to care.

She plops down in her seat and tucks the letter away for safe-keeping. Framed or not she doesn't plan on letting it go anytime soon. There has to be someone, somewhere, that wants to see it. That wants to drink in the details of it like she had when she had torn the envelope open with her teeth.

Kidava looks to her right. "Are you as excited as I am to go?"

Sabre Hennedige doesn't look up from his notebook. "No one could be as excited as you."

The bell rings. She smiles regardless.

* * *

Woo, first intros!

I decided to do all of this nonsense in third-person, different to everything else I've written, so I hope that goes over well. It's just easier, at this point. I'm doing the pre-Games layout pretty similar to my other three stories with some obviously big changes as this isn't a traditional Hunger Games. Six chapters of basic introductions before we move into what would traditionally be the chariots to the launch portion of the story. Updates will (hopefully) come every Saturday, approximately 12pm EST. If I can't update then I'll probably let you know the week before.

And then I toad wheelie meme my way to the bloodbath because I'm impatient and like Merder.

Until next time.


	5. Golden Hour

II.

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17  
Applicant #10**

* * *

"You're sort of an asshole," he says finally, to the headstone.

Is it wrong of him, to be calling a dead girl names? Does it make it more wrong that he just called the girl he loved an asshole, six months after her death?

Well, she is. _Was_. And he says that with a great amount of love.

Only one Miss. Estella Rosen would pull this kind of shit on him. Only she would think this far ahead, this many months down the line. Long enough that he can deal but not quite long enough that he hasn't forgotten about all of this. It's like she planned this for a year. Close to it, anyway.

Someone had congratulated him, on his walk home from the store this morning. Congratulated him about getting chosen, whatever the fresh hell that meant. It wasn't until he had returned home that he had gotten it, courtesy of a letter in the mailbox. Again, that stupid _congratulations!_ and he had read the thing three times over before it had really sunk in, what it all meant.

Issue being one thing: he had never applied to the New Haven whatever. In fact, he hadn't even watched the broadcast this morning, when they had announced the final applicants.

Apparently he should have. Apparently one of the names they announced was his.

So he calls. He talks to three different people on the other end of the number attached at the bottom of the letter, all of whom tell him that yes, he did in fact apply, and yes, up until six months ago he was actively replying in accordance with the application.

And yes, he's required to go.

In three days there's a bus coming to collect all the accepted applicants from One. He'll have to walk himself there at six in the morning, provide some sort of identification, and get on the bus. The bus will transport them all to the Capitol, and then _something_ else will take them _somewhere_ else. Apparently that information is classified.

But first of all - a bus? That's how they're doing this? Not a hovercraft, not a plane, but a _bus_?

If he dies before they get to the Capitol, he won't be surprised.

Until then, for three more days, he's stuck in One, talking to no one except a dead girl. And she isn't so polite as to answer him.

She probably did it for his own good. She knew, damn her, that he'd still be in One long after her parents and sister had packed up and moved back home to the Capitol. His own father calls once a week, like clockwork, and tells him every time that he has a ticked booked for him to get back home. Whether or not that's the truth, because Icarus isn't sure it is, he hasn't yet considered it. In the wave of being perfectly honest, there's not a whole lot there for him. At least not things that he can't get here, where he's safe from his parents and their temperaments, always changing at the drop of a dime.

His father is going to keep calling until Icarus comes back. In fact, he should be calling again tonight.

Icarus almost can't wait, until he can tell him that he's coming back, and then leaving immediately after. Bus or not, it'll be satisfying.

But until then, he's stuck right here in the middle of this dreary, very under-kept cemetery, wondering who the hell owns it for it to look like such a mess. Just because it's a cemetery doesn't mean it has to look like you could die just from walking through the front gates.

He honestly doesn't know what to say, besides _you're sort of an asshole_ , which is rude at worst and underwhelming at best. That's exactly what she would have told him, if he had said that to her face six months ago. But it's a little over six months, now, by just a few days, and there's no point in saying anything else because he has to go, and it's all her fault.

He's gonna have to pay someone to take care of this little plot of land while he's gone, and to do it well.

Her parents didn't really give a shit about him either way, and his own parents still disapprove that he followed them here in the first place, so he can't imagine how that money conversation is going to go, but he always gets it in the end. Regardless of her feeble little feelings, his mother will probably cry if she even imagines that his father is with-holding money for him to live on his own.

That's one thing she's good for, if nothing else.

He stands up. There's a couple the row over, a young girl holding onto her sister's hand across the road. Every single one of them turns to look at him as he rises. There's been a lot of bodies, after the war. A lot of graves. Apparently the living are in short supply in One, these days.

People up and walking tend to draw the eye regardless of how much white they're wearing in the middle of a cemetery.

If only they knew how little they mattered, in the grand scheme of things.

"See you later," he says. Sometimes he still waits for her voice to chime back, but not today. If that was the case, he would have been hearing it all morning.

It's like he said, this will probably be good for him. Estella knew that, or she wouldn't have bothered sending in an application with his name on it. It'll get him out of One, anyway. Hopefully far enough away that all of this fades into a very distant little memory.

He's hopeful, but not terribly optimistic

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16**  
 **Applicant #17**

* * *

Ria's really only got two rules, living under her parents roof.

The first is keep the door open, or at least unlocked. She spends so much time alone down in the basement that most people wouldn't see reason to shutting and locking the door, but she likes the privacy. She likes knowing that there's a barrier between her and whatever's just outside, that she'll have warning if something is about to happen.

The second is to keep the music down. It takes her a long, long minute to realize that the rhythmic pounding is not in fact coming from her headphones.

She pulls them out, and the door shakes again. "Isperia! Door open!"

She forgoes her laptop and scrambles to the end of the bed, leaning precariously over the edge until she can reach the door to unlock it. It comes flying in faster than most normal people would open it - mom, then. Sure enough her mother's face peers in, more excited than anything Ria could ever come up with for her own face. She's not sure how her mother manages it.

"Guess what, sweetheart?"

"What?"

Her mother doesn't say anything, and frantically shakes the manila envelope in her hands. Ria stares at it for a long moment, and finally raises an eyebrow.

"I'm gonna guess that it has to do with whatever's inside the envelope?"

The envelope gets shoved into her hands; the edge is already torn open, and the paper inside crinkled just enough at the edges that it's obvious her parents felt it was their parental right to go rooting through her things. Her name is on the front of the envelope. It's definitely hers. The only issue is she never gets mail, not from anyone. There's no one to send it.

"You got accepted," she announces, her voice too gleeful. Ria doesn't feel an ounce of that glee. "Your father and I we're watching the announcements, and that was in the mail. You've been _accepted_ — _"_

"What?" she interrupts quietly, a spike of nervous energy suddenly rearing it's ugly head. "Mom, I didn't actually think—"

"Of course we didn't think, but we could hope, Ria. And they chose you! Don't you understand?"

Oh, she understands. She finally pulls the paper out of the envelope. The initial letter isn't all that long, and not the reason for real concern. It's the second paper that gets her going. It's mostly a list of dates and times, locations. Places she'll be going, because she got accepted. Somewhere other than her room and the basement. And to think she didn't even fill out the application herself. Her parents had done most of it, her father's gifted hand at writing and explaining things. She had watched on a a reluctant participant, as they signed a few days of her life away into the middle of nowhere. It still doesn't make sense; nothing her father could make up would sound good enough for a committee to be choosing her. She's a nobody, an outcast, someone that no one likes and that no one bothers with, and for good reason. Even in Three everyone knows where she came from.

She feels like she could throw up. She hasn't left home _ever_ , and certainly not for several days, with a bunch of people she doesn't even know. Just the idea is enough to freak her out; clearly she's not meant for this, and she definitely has no idea how to handle it.

Her mother tugs everything back out of her hands. Knowing her it'll end up framed and hung over the mantle.

"Well, don't dawdle around. You have to get packing, and saying goodbye to your friends."

"I don't have any friends."

"Now, that's not true. What about— um, that boy that lives next door? He's your friend."

"Render's not my friend, mom. Just because he's our neighbor doesn't mean he likes me."

"But he delivers our paper every-day."

"Because that's his job?"

That doesn't appear to do anything to dampen her mother's spirit. "Well, I'll have your father get out one of our extra suitcases. And we're going out for dinner tonight to celebrate - wherever you want."

"You don't have to do that," she starts, but her mom is already gone. If she's going to be spending the next foreseeable amount of days god only knows where, she'd prefer to treasure the time she has with her room while it lasts. Apparently not even that wish of hers can get fulfilled, but what can she expect, when her parents have been ignoring them since the beginning?

It probably won't be as bad as she's making it out to be. There's something to be said about the dramatics of Capitolites even to this day. Maybe she's just making a big deal of it. There will still be things to do for her there, even if actively interacting with the others isn't one of them. Things to learn and to see, things to try. And regardless of her own wishes, it probably isn't the best idea in the world to spend her entire summer holed up in the basement like a human troll. It's definitely not what her parents would like for her to do.

Apparently what her parents what is the number one priority. They filled out the application, and there's no stopping it now. They want her to live her life, fend for herself. Welcome the world with open arms.

She doesn't have to do that, though.

She doesn't have to do anything, not if she doesn't want.

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17  
Applicant #13**

* * *

Emmi can't even remember what school back in the Capitol was like.

It's not even like she's been in Eight that long, either. Only two years, just enough to perfectly adjust to the lifestyle that Eight allowed and to morph it into something better. Into something that wasn't quite so awful as what she went through back home.

Not home. This is home now.

This time of year no one seems to really care in school, no one except her. She's still dressed to the nines - her shirt is a shade of orange that she's sure has been outlawed in one of the outer Districts, topped by her jacket that shifts and sparkles in the sun. And in Eight, no one notices a bit of extra tailoring. No one cares. If you've brought your shirt in to end where you arm does, just at the elbow, no one pays any mind to it.

Some people did, at first. A girl from the Capitol with only one forearm would bring attention anywhere she goes, but Emmi made sure to quell that the second it started. She shut them up. Shoved the negativity away with her existing hand. People in Eight seem to only care about a few things at a time, and usually the eccentricity of her jackets took precedence over the missing forearm.

She sees Ms. Hackett outside her office long before she gets there despite the crowd of people, stapling the list to the corkboard. She had nearly stayed home this morning when she found out she was going to miss the broadcast, only until she had found out about this instead. Of course the school's guidance counselor would care about how they were getting their knowledge - of course she would post it the second she knew.

"Walk any faster and you might overshoot it," Idalia says, nudging her from behind. Trust Idalia to be waiting for her. "Excited, are we?"

Idalia knows that's not the truth of it, and being such a good friend shouldn't have to ask. Emmi only speeds up even more, dragging Idalia along with her to where the paper is pinned. A few people are glancing at it as they pass by, but most of them here aren't Capitol kids. Most of them here couldn't apply in the first place.

Idalia spins her around just before they make it there and gets to the list before she does, cupping her hands over it and giggling obscenely. Emmi sighs and bides her time, letting Idalia look through her hands, giggling all the while.

"So?" she asks. "What's the damage?"

" _Well_ ," she says slowly. "It appears that Nadine is going to have to crawl her way up the totem pole some other way. _You_ on the other hand—"

Emmi shoves her friend out of the way, refusing to listen and scrolls a finger down the list. At _#13_ she finally sees the bright, bolded Emmi Langlois, smack dab in the middle. She forces herself to finish the list even though that's more than enough. She was so worried. She couldn't sleep last night. Everything in her brain kept telling her there was no chance, that there's no way in hell they'd let her go. She didn't even have a reason.

There's definitely no Nadine Quintana on there, though, and Emmi finally allows herself a laugh as well.

"I'm not blind, right?" she asks. "It's really me on there and not her?"

"It really is!" Idalia says. "Dude, this is awesome. You get to go and she doesn't. Serves her right, that bitch. After what she said to you last week? If she had gotten accepted I would have thrown up in my mouth."

Any other person and she would be telling Idalia to shut up, but this is Nadine they're talking about. Nadine who torments everyone and everything that gets in her way, anybody deemed littler than herself. Nadine who won't make a comment about her arm but who will mutter about everything else. She's the definition of a bully, of a true pampered Capitol girl, of someone who says what they wants and doesn't think there will be repercussions.

And maybe this isn't a repercussion, not really, but it's karma coming to serve justice to someone who finally deserves it.

"Did she get in? Did she get in?" she hears from behind her, and Neve dodges around two younger boys ogling the list to shove her way in-between them. She nearly crashes face-first into the list herself, flattening her hand along it and managing to cover up half the names in the process. Emmi draws her back and holds onto her arm so she can't go elsewhere.

"Em!" she cries. "The universe listened to us!"

"The universe listened to _you_ ," she insists. "The universe is bullshit to me."

"Not anymore! They chose you!"

And maybe that's the karma of it all. The good karma. She thinks she's been through enough. Not having half an arm from the time she was born, losing her mother, trying to adapt to a new and cruel world that chewed her up and spit her out - maybe this is finally her time. She's spent so much time trying to just be okay with herself, with her situation. Blossoming into someone that could handle it all, unlike the Emmi that existed back in the Capitol.

She has friends now. A school that she can walk the halls of and look people in the eyes without a sense of fear. A home and environment that supports what she does even on the worst of days.

And now she has several days free of Nadine Quintana, even if she would never think of rubbing it in.

* * *

 **Jahaira Aurelion, 16  
Applicant #23**

* * *

Here's the thing about Plainview: it's very plain.

Shocking, right?

She only woke up at the crack of dawn to get a good view of the sunrise far off in the distance; she hopped onto the windowseat at the end of the hall, edged carefully out onto the windowsill, and crawled her way up onto the edge of the sloped roof, where she now resides. It badly needs to be replaced - she's sure Dad knows this, but the stray flecks of shingle are starting to cling to her bare legs every time she sits down up here.

The house isn't very big, anyway. Five or six feet to the ground, low and spread out like a ranch even though there's nothing good to farm. She can dangle her legs off the edge and not fear breaking something if she were to slip off.

Her camera wouldn't suffer such a fate, but she holds onto that more closely than she holds onto herself.

Plainview is plain, that much is true. It also has some of the best sunrises she's ever seen. The only ones, really. She doesn't remember much of them in the Capitol, young as she was, but she knows that their full brilliance was often obscured by the shadows the skyscrapers cast over their homes and the mountains far out where she couldn't see. Even her camera can never quite nail down just how pretty it is in person, no matter what she changes. Her settings, the angles, the time... it'll always look better to the naked eye.

But that doesn't mean she can't try. The Haywood's down at the register expressed interest in publishing some of her pictures in the paper, something about tourism on their lips, and she had instantly tuned it out in favor of thinking where she should head. Perhaps the old restored bank just around the corner, or the golden fields just outside of the city limits, or those towering sunflowers Mrs. Nunez grew out in her front garden three houses down. She could make _anything_ look good.

Most things, anyway. Some days Plainview tried its hardest to ruin even the best of them.

Like today, almost. The sky was slightly clouded over, the wisps of them in the sky. It was like she was looking at it through glasses fogged up by a heavy dose of steam. She still raised her camera up to take a few quick shots anyway. Sometimes the best shots came from the times you least expected; some of her favorites came from moments in time she hadn't expected to capture anything at all.

If she could become a big-time photographer that was a job, and one that she could love - if she could find the beauty in things that people normally didn't find beautiful at all then that was a dream.

A few of the kids at school had teased her for that, at how she talked about the New Haven Program like it was a single part of a larger dream, but that was it, wasn't it? This was the chance to make one of the most horrific things in history worth looking at. She wasn't stupid - there would be no making something like the Games look beautiful, no way in hell. But even the worst things deserved to be captured. Remembered.

"Are you up here again, JJ?" she heard, and the voice floated all the way up from the window and into the wispy pink sky. She tucked her camera away into the cranny behind the chimney and crawled back to the edge of the roof, where she could reach her little sister's struggling hands. She pulled Raelle up onto the roof next to her and far away from the edge.

"Don't tell mom and dad," she insists, and Raelle nods like always. "How are you this lovely morning, Raerae?"

"Good," she answers. "Are you excited?"

"If the time ever comes, sure."

Another problem with Plainview: their broadcasts were always last to show up. It must be hard to get such information out to a place like this. Maybe she'll never know if she got accepted to the Program, and they'll only figure it out when they have twenty-three people show up instead of twenty-four.

She leans back against the chimney and Raelle flops over her legs like a cat, stretching out her pajama clad legs into the sun. She takes another picture, this time of her sister's face turned up to the sun, eyes becoming slits as she looks towards the horizon.

"It's pretty," she decides.

"You think so?"

She can see the beauty in anything where most people can't, but even Raelle must be outshining her this morning brighter than the sun itself, because this sunrise isn't one of the best. There's too many clouds, a few dark ones gathering right where the sun would normally start to pour over the outer fields.

Then again, when has six year old Raelle seen anything other than Plainview's sunrises? She never saw the rays reflect off the glass buildings of the Capitol, the shards of light raining down on the streets people. She's never seen the sun from the tallest building in Panem, peeking up in-between two mountains.

Chances are she never will.

"Yeah, it is," she repeats, resting her head on Jahaira's leg. "I like the pink."

A six year old response, beautiful and simple. Jahaira doesn't have the heart to tell her that the pink is slowly starting to bleed away into red and that it won't be her favorite color for much longer. It's all she can do not to think about their father's business trips to Four back in the day and all the trinkets he brought back for them. Pieces of sea glass and shells strung up on twine, the painted empty home of a hermit crab.

And the phrase that he never seemed to stop saying, something that she guaranteed she would hear when the two of them finally returned inside.

"Red sky at night, sailor's delight," she murmurs. "Red sky at morning, sailor's warning."

"What's that mean?" Raelle asks, not lifting her head up. She combs some of her sister's hair away from her face and lets out a deep breath, letting the sun soak into her skin. It may not be the prettiest thing in the world, but she'll enjoy it. For Raelle. For herself.

It's not the worst thing in the world to look at.

"Nothing," she replies. "Nothing at all."

* * *

I named a chapter Red Sky At Morning, once. I also killed three people in it so I'm not entirely sure what that says about me.

Let me know your thoughts on this one, as well! Started bloodbath organization these past few days, whew. Forgot what a ride that was.

Until next time.


	6. Born Ready

III.

* * *

 **Meris Loucare, 17  
Applicant #15**

* * *

She really hadn't wanted this to be a big deal.

When you lived with as many people as she did everything was a big deal, point blank. If you went to the store someone wanted to know about it. She knew that was only the case because any and all of their housemates liked to add to their ever-growing grocery list at the slightest opportunity to do so. Anything to get out of the duty of carrying it all back.

There's a lot of reasons why she wakes up even earlier than necessary, in order to re-check all of her bags and get out of the house. At this hour everyone will still be asleep except for Lyan, who left at least forty-five minutes ago for an early workday, but she said a worthy goodbye to her brother last night, even if he was too tired to really understand a word she was saying.

But everyone else may as well be dead to the world. Ezben won't be joining her brother at Nine's newest construction site until noon, which means he'll be asleep until five minutes before then. Ty and Ophelia will be down at the processing plant by eleven. Nora will be up in twenty minutes, tops, which means she has about fifteen to make her get-away.

She creeps very quietly past Cass' room, even though the only other girl still in her teens under this roof wouldn't hear her anyway.

She likes these people. She does. But they're more her brother's friends than hers. There's a reason they spent their first few weeks in Nine couch-surfing, virtually homeless, and it was because she had to give Lyan some time to make some friends. And make friends he had. It still wasn't the ideal situation - the house was ramshackle at best, and the ceiling in the bathroom leaked every-time it rained, but it was no worse than their situation had been in the Capitol. Sure, their friends houses back there had all been nicer, but it didn't change the fact that they had nowhere proper to live and hadn't since their mother died.

 _Everything_ is a big deal, when the walls are almost too small to hold so many people. When you live in a place like that, the urge to keep some things to yourselves only grow stronger. It's not like they had a working television anyway, at least not one that broadcast any important news, so no one knew she had been chosen. Hell, no one besides Lyan even knew she applied. Most of them hadn't really cared about the program anyway, and the ones who had did nothing but snark about it. That's all Ezben did - bitch about Capitol kids like he wasn't living with two of them.

She makes it to the kitchen unscathed, dragging her bag after her, and scribbles out a note on the first thing she finds, a scrap of napkin that she pins under Nora's unwashed coffee mug, still sitting out on the counter.

 _Got accepted to New Haven. Lyan knows. See you guys in a few days or so._

Nora would probably be pissed when she got back, but she had no right. If Nora really was upset it was only for one reason; that she couldn't apply herself and get the hell out of Nine like the both of them talked about so often. Meris had just gotten the chance to do it first, and she was taking it.

"Meris?" Tekla asks blearily.

She nearly jumps, like Nora woke up with burning ears and crept up on her, but thankfully she's spared of that. Tekla's nearly concealed by the kitchen table, short as she is, rubbing weakly at her eyes.

"What are you doing up, kiddo?" she asks. She leaves her bag in the kitchen and scoops the girl up into her arms, heading back to her room.

"Thought you were mommy."

"Nope, definitely not. Mommy's still asleep, so you're gonna go back to sleep too."

Tekla's never been much of a fighter, and Meris worries for that. She doesn't protest when Meris carries her back to her room and tucks her back into bed.

"Are you going somewhere?"

"Yeah. Don't tell anyone though - our secret."

Tekla nods, a little smile growing on her face. Their secret, and hers and Lyan's, and soon the whole household, once Nora wakes up. Surely someone will explain it to Tekla then, in more detail, but for now a three year old needs nothing more than to go back to sleep so that her parents can get another hour in, before they're required to face the day.

This really isn't perfect. There's not enough room, and Ty and Ophelia try to juggle a three year old with simultaneous twelve hour work days. You'd think everything would be getting better, Capitol kid or not.

Tekla drifts off back to sleep, though, like there's not a problem in the world. One day she'll grow up and realize the truth of it all, but now Meris is grateful that there's at least one person here not fighting to get the hell out. The Capitol really wasn't any better towards the end of their lives there, but her gut told her as soon as they got to Nine that it was wrong, and that leaving felt more right.

She shuts the door to Tekla's room and hurries back to her things. There's no telling how much time she has left, and she doesn't think she should push it more than she already has.

She's been given an opportunity. A secret.

And no matter what it is it's much, much better than being here.

* * *

 **Myra Callaghan-Alistair, 18  
Applicant #5**

* * *

The burn of the needle has become a familiar thing.

Or maybe the real reason it's so familiar is because of how Lorcan moves it, the same way he has for the past two years. Back then was the time when any official registered shop would require the signature of a guardian, and presented ID, but in this place the open sign goes off, and Lorcan goes on.

That's not to say Myra has gone out of her way to rebel against the people who raised her half her life; it's just the thrill of it. Of going in the back door and sitting down in the chair and letting one of her best friends put some new artwork all over her body like it was meant to be there. It's a lucky thing, that she trusts Lorcan most days more than she trusts herself, or she'd never let him do it.

She's got things - a lot of things. But this is Lorcan's, and it's his only one.

She's a writer. He's the artist.

"I'm just gonna scribble down your arm if you don't keep still," he says, in the middle of her writing a name down. She lets the pen cap fall out of her mouth.

"Don't say that."

"I'm serious."

"Bullshit, I'd make sure no one ever came in this place again."

"What happened to _all art is beautiful to someone_?"

"A jagged line down my arm is not _art_."

Lorcan smirks, and continues on with his shading. She's never had an easy time sitting still during these sessions; the real truth of the matter is that only Lorcan would be willing to pause and break for her fidgeting, for her never-ending energy. It's a wonder she made it through the ink all the way down her back, no matter how many sessions it took. She had still wanted to scream by the end of it, and not because of the pain.

"I've got twenty-two."

"Well, you're missing yourself."

"Thanks, genius. I can't remember who the last person is."

"Why does it matter, Myra?" he asks, sounding genuinely curiously. "You're going to meet all the other kids they chose in two days."

It matters to her. She wants all the names. She wants all the information she can possibly gather, and Lorcan's crappy little television in the corner of the studio had replayed the announcement over a dozen times since she sat down, and she's still missing one. That name is probably the most important one, someone who wants nothing more than to share their experiences with her, who wants them written down like she so wants to do. Writing is her thing. History, the past - that's all her thing. And she loves it.

"Help me with my book."

"Solid pass."

"Oh, c'mon."

"If I wanted to write a biography about my life and experiences during the rebellion and after, then I'd do it."

"That would be an autobiography, not a biography."

He gives her a _look_ , and she feels as if his temptation to scribble down her arm with the needle is growing stronger by the second. Clearly she doesn't fit the typical definition of writer. Lorcan would tell her she's never been quiet a day in her life. Her uncle reads her notes over her shoulder and says _interesting_ , nothing else. She only probably got permission to apply to the Program because he wanted to stop hearing about it all the time. The best way to do that was to let her go, to let her experience it, and then to hope it stopped.

Jokes on him.

It feels like they made this Program with her in mind. No one else understands that, except for the twenty-three other people they happened to choose. She's hoping they get it, in a way no one else does. Maybe they won't be activists, or hopeful historians, but they'll get it.

"Alright, we're done," Lorcan announces, and pulls away from her shoulder. The black and gray bird there is finally done, and her skin is only slightly reddened. It appears that all of her, tattooed or not, has gotten used to the burn as well.

"Beautiful as always," she tells him, and he offers a cheerful salute. "What do I owe you?"

"Nothing. You're good."

"Seriously?"

"Considering it a congratulations present. Or a going away present. Whatever you like better."

She vaults off the chair, loses both the pen and the pen cap in the process, and leans forward to hug him. He tries to pull away, like always, grunting in surprise. That's about the usual reaction she gets for such a sudden hug, but he deserves it. It's not like she ever really pays full price anyway, not with Lorcan, but it's still touching all the same.

"You're the best."

"Oh, I'm aware," he says with a grin. "Now let me wrap it before you fuck up all my hard work."

At least he's always careful. That's something she's definitely not, and he makes sure to tell her every other day. She feels like she could leap into this head-first and not care at all. She's been packed since an hour after she found out. If they offered to come pick her up right now, directly from the tattoo parlor, then she'd already be outside. It doesn't even matter where they take her, at this point. She's more than ready. She feels like she was born for it.

Lorcan holds the back door open for her as she steps out into the alleyway, arm squeaking in it's new plastic coat. "Try not to get into too much trouble, hey?"

"What, me?" she asks in mock offense, bringing her wrapped arm up to press over her heart. "Never."

* * *

 **Nicator Selton, 17  
Applicant #14**

* * *

He really likes to pride himself on not making rash, insane decisions.

Okay, maybe not insane. Slightly thoughtless, perhaps. It's not like he's about to go burn down an entire city block. The opposite, really. Just walk down one all casual, pulling his bag alongside him, to an address that he didn't have three days ago, from a source that was definitely not any of the people who live there.

And him and Percy hadn't really... talked about this. At all. It was mentioned, of course - you spend enough time in several classes with someone, the things you have in common come up. He knew Percy had applied, but he hadn't thought anyone he knew would have gotten chosen alongside him. He didn't recognize any of the other names from the Capitol, after all.

He didn't know when the idea had finally struck him, but it had ended with him making a trip down to Ms. Yarven's office on his free period, to ask her for Percy's address. It was a running joke between all of his friends, how much everyone in the administration office liked him, but even then he hadn't expected her to actually hand it over so willingly. She hadn't even asked _why_ either, just went digging through her folders until she had produced it for him.

It didn't technically end like that, though. It ends right now, with him walking up to Percy's front door like he had been invited.

He knocks, holding his breath so tightly that he'll be blue in the face by the time anyone bothers to answer. He hears the approaching footsteps and is somehow still surprised when the door cracks open, a woman peering at him from the other side.

"Hello?"

"Hi," he responds. "I, uh— is Percy here?"

Of course Percy's here, is he an imbecile? Apparently. Nic gave himself plenty of time to walk down here, more than enough to get the both of them to the bus before it's scheduled to leave. He wasn't about to hold anyone up.

The woman's voice booms so loudly when she calls for Percy, up the stairs, he almost jumps and drops his bags. All of this just because he didn't want to walk down there alone, have to meet the others with them all staring at him and him alone. Percy will be a nice distraction, for him and for everyone. A distraction is exactly what he needs right now to keep himself from becoming even more jittery; the fact that they chose someone like little old him in the first place still seems like a miracle. He's no more special than anyone else.

Percy launches himself down the last of the stairs and hits the ground with a thud. His eyes widen at the sight of Nic standing in his doorway, like anyone's would.

He really should've just asked him.

"Why are you here?"

Nic tries not to let his face fall. "I should've just asked you in class, I know, given you some warning or something, but I was just wondering if you wanted to walk down to the station with me? It's not that far, and I just really don't want to go alone. You don't have to, though. I can go by myself."

His nervous laughter is so pathetic it almost hurts him physically.

"Oh," Percy says. "I was gonna get my moms to drive me, but—"

"That's fine," he says in a rush. "Like I said, I can walk down there myself, it's no big deal."

"No, no. I'll come with you. Just give me a few minutes, hey?"

He's already nodding, and Percy takes off so fast he blinks and almost misses his departure. There's a lot of thudding and shouting, more than he would expect from any other household so early in the morning. He catches a quick glimpse of Percy trying to wheel himself away from one of his mother's reaching hands, and when he finally tugs himself free he drops two bags at Nic's feet by the door and vaults back for the stairs so quickly Nic waits for him to go crashing into them. That's one way to prematurely end this trip.

He knows what most people say about Percy, but he's not thinking about that when he picks his backpack up off the floor and shoulders it. Most people can't stand him. He's loud and annoying, impossible to get along with at the worst of times. Nic's always had trouble seeing him that way. To be frank, he has trouble seeing anyone that way.

Percy finally returns to the door, hurriedly stuffing his feet into a pair of shoes and grabbing at a jacket hanging off the back of the door. "You don't have to carry my stuff."

Nic shrugs, and refuses to let it drop to the floor. Percy smiles at that, and gives a massive heave to the remaining bag on the floor, tugging it frantically across the threshold and onto the front porch.

"Love you!" he calls back into the house, and slams the door shut before anyone can respond. Everything feels a little too urgent, too frantic. He pauses while Percy struggles with his bag, finally righting it properly on the concrete. Percy finally looks up at him, and he smiles.

"You ready?" he asks.

"Not at all," Nic responds. He's excited, don't get him wrong. More excited than he can every remember being. He just hopes all of this goes smoothly, that he gets along with everyone, that there's no cause for drama. He wants to do this, and he wants to take it all in. "What about you?"

Percy seems to consider that, for several long seconds. He finally manages to wipe the smile off his face, the smile that Nic still hasn't fully wrapped his brain around.

"Born ready. Let's go."

* * *

 **Meliodas Vergara, 18  
Applicant #18**

* * *

"What are you still doing here?" he asks blearily, blinking in the too-bright lights from the kitchen.

His father hardly looked up from whatever he was stirring in the skillet. "Thought I would give you a proper send-off. Make you some breakfast. Do you have a problem with that?"

No, he didn't. He would never have a problem with someone making him breakfast. It's just that he was pretty convinced his father had a meeting this morning, which would have meant he left the house even earlier than he normally did.

"I postponed it," he continues, ever the mind reader. "They understood. It's not every-day you have to send your son off to some unknown location."

There's something passive-aggressive about that, but Mel's been hearing it ever since the announcement was made. His father doesn't get it. Never will, if he's being honest. There's no understanding towards his desire to know more, to see more. His father is quite content where they are now; he's spent two years working himself up in the business bureaus in One. Mel can't say he blames him.

But his father doesn't care about what people think of him. If he cared, his hair wouldn't still be the same shade of black, reflected blue back in the sunlight.

There's a reason Meliodas stopped dyeing his hair, let the semi-permanent tattoos fade. He still remembered the looks he had gotten when they first moved here. It wasn't very much open disdain, not in One. No, it was harder to place than that. It was open, undisguised curiosity, like he was a creature at the zoo. For a while he had been able to embrace that, being the lion watching all the little ants scurry around him.

But that wasn't how it worked anymore.

"You don't have to make it sound so dangerous, dad," he settles on eventually. "I think it'll be cool. Hopefully when I get back I'll be able to tell you all sorts of things. Maybe we can even go visit a few spots, or something."

Unlikely, but Mel can hope.

"You sound like your mother."

His lips quirk up, both at that and the plate of pancakes his father places in front of him. They look a little charred around the edges, but he's going to keep his mouth shut. His mother was a better cook than this. Still is. Whenever she passes through One she always makes sure to bring him something, and he's not exactly sure who's kitchens she keeps on borrowing, but it seems better each and every time.

He misses her. There's a reason he moved to One with his father. Sixteen year olds couldn't very well go around traversing the country with only one parent, least of all not one who couldn't always make time for him. She still sends him photographs almost every week, from places increasingly more unfamiliar. He still gets the newspapers she's published in sent all the way from the Capitol, every issue.

"Do you think that's a bad thing?" he asks.

"No, of course not. It's just that not everyone can make a career out of gallivanting across the country doing something they love, and I hope you see that. You never used to be like this. I had to force you to sit down and watch the Games with me when you were younger."

He never understood the fanfare. The desire. The way the people around him would cheer - they sounded like killers themselves, something Meliodas knew he could never be.

But it's like he said; that had all changed. They had moved, and he had realized everything he thought he knew about the Capitol and their Games, none of it really mattered to the people _here._

It was in times like these that his mind always wandered back to Cadence Fifer. She was everything he imagined when they had first moved here, everything a One should be. Tall, beautiful, displaying a kindness that he was so sure only masked the hurt and dismay she still carried from the death of her much older brother in the 159th. It had been so long ago that he hardly had any recollection of it, and could hardly remember what he had said to her when he had finally worked up the courage to say it.

He definitely couldn't recall what he had said, nervous as he was and struggling to hide it, but he remembers her voice.

"Second's as bad as twenty-fourth," she had said, plain as day, shrugging so high her shoulders nearly touched her ears. "It didn't matter much to me either way."

There was no hurt to be hidden, only shame. Disdain. A lack of love for someone that had died for his District, or really nothing at all.

A lot of things had changed that day. Both for him, and for her. She still looked at him as they passed in the halls, sometimes, but she hadn't spoken a word to him since then, and he hadn't pushed it.

He didn't understand it then, and he still didn't. But he wanted to.

His father reached forward to tap the edge of his plate. "Not going to eat?"

He looked down at the pancakes, struggling to keep his face blank. They were even more burnt than he had realized.

"No offense dad," he said calmly. "These look terrible."

His father sighed and pulled the plate away, dumping its contents into the garbage with a thunk. "Go get dressed, then. You're going to be late."

Early, judging by the clock, but he wasn't going to say otherwise. There were a lot of things he didn't say to his father, in order to keep the peace between them. His father wouldn't understand, not ever, and maybe that was just how the world worked sometimes. If Meliodas thought he could change that, he would say something. Something about how different they had become, how while Mel struggled with his own knowledge his father struggled to keep his relationship with the widowed jeweler down the street intact.

There was nothing wrong with Allegra, not really. But there was nothing right about her either.

Mel would never say that out-loud. He may not have the best understanding with his father, but it could certainly be worse. He wasn't about to drive a dagger through the heart of one of the only constant relationships he had.

It's like he said - he wasn't a killer.

* * *

Halfway done intros and that's about all I have to say, tbh. No clue how to write notes anymore. Let me know what you thought of this batch as always!

Until next time.


	7. Power Player

IIII.

* * *

 **Gideon Mallory, 16  
** **Applicant #20**

* * *

There was a certain... level to the amount of bullshit Mal could handle on any one given morning.

This may just be the limit.

He was certain that not a single other kid accepted to the Program thought the same way he did, least of all not so abhorrently. Sure, nerves were a thing. Stress and anxiety were a _thing._ That's not at all what he felt.

Mal spends twenty minutes lingering outside his front door, angrily kicking rocks into the dirt road, before Connie wheels herself up the last of the street and into his vicinity. She slows down at the sight of him, dropping her arms alongside the wheels.

"That hill is fucking brutal," she announces, panting heavily.

He may abhor this entire situation, the mere idea of it, but this is easy. This is the most continuity he can get, when he swivels his duffel around his shoulders and takes the handles of the wheelchair in his hands, pushing her further down the road towards the Square.

The sun hasn't even come up yet, and Connie looks more tired than usual. She leans back in the car so that her ponytail tickles at his forearms, the red strands the brightest thing in the thinning woods for a mile in any direction.

"You didn't have to come all this way to see me off, Con."

"I know I didn't, idiot. But I wanted to. My best friend is leaving me by my lonesome for a few days and I want to say goodbye to him."

If there's one thing he's furious about, well and truly angry, it's the fact that he's leaving Connie. He knows that's not what his parents were thinking when they forced him to finish up the application three days before the final deadline, but they never thought about much in regards to the barest shreds of comfort he had managed to find since moving to Seven.

And it wasn't just that. Connie needed someone, it a world where it seemed like no one wanted to help.

"You sure you'll be fine?"

"What's a few days of bullying and harassment when you've been through a year of it?"

Mal sighs. "Connie—"

"What? It's true. You know - last week Gerald said my face was really nice to look at, but it was kind of dampened by the fact that I had no legs."

"I'm gonna remember you said that," he promises. "And I'm going to beat the shit out of him when I get back."

"That's really touching, but you have to stop. They had to break Ivan's jaw to put it back because of how bad you dislocated it."

It's not easy to look down at her when he's pushing her like this. It's much easier, in fact, to keep his eyes pinned on the road in front of them to avoid running into the ruts like he's done so many times before. That doesn't stop Connie from swiveling around to pin him with a look as satanic as the color of her hair, a look he feels like he's on the receiving of far too often.

"You know, they're never going to let you try out for Varsity next year if you don't stop walking into school and pummeling someone every day."

" _Varsity_ ," he scoffs. "If the great Bumpkin Tree Huggers are what school is calling their best baseball team, then I don't want to try out for it."

" _I'm_ a Bumpkin Tree Hugger," she points out, waving a hand around like it was an oncoming threat at hitting him. "They could use someone as good as you."

Connie was the exception to the rule, though. One of the only fucking weird, backwoods people from this hellhole that he could stand, and that was only because she had been so present in his life that he really hadn't had a choice about it. He had seen the way her eyes had lit up when one of her cousins had come in to visit his father's clinic with a bouquet too expensive for anyone in her family - every shade of tulip imaginable. That was the first time she smiled since they took her legs.

And God, had he needed a friend.

She didn't lie to him, and he wouldn't ever lie to her. He didn't want to be a part of any team that involved nothing but sixteen to eighteen year old yokels, half of whom were probably related and three quarters of whom couldn't hit a fastball the first time it got thrown at them.

That had been the hardest thing to leave behind, in the Capitol. At least then he had something, a group that he felt actually valued his presence, before his parents decided it was proper time to rip it away from him.

He finally hits an unavoidable rut in the road, one that stretches all the way across, and pulls himself out of his torturous fuming. There's no fucking point to it, anyway.

At least in the Program he won't be surrounded by people like the ones here.

Hopefully, anyway. After everything he had seen here, he wasn't so sure anymore.

"I'm going to miss you, Mal," Connie says out of the blue, some five minutes later. He pushes a little slower. They still have time, and for the first time in a long while she actually sounds a little sad.

He definitely doesn't want to get there early, either.

"You too, Con," he answers. "Run over Gerald for me while I'm gone."

She laughed - that was better. Much better. There was no one else in this District that deserved to laugh more than she did, and no one else that he would bother trying for. They didn't deserve his time or effort, and they didn't deserve this girl either.

He also didn't deserve to have to leave, just when he thought he might finally be building a real life for himself somewhere so far from home. He had spent so much time trying to mentally will himself back to the Capitol, back to everything that had existed before.

Mal didn't want to go, so of course he had to.

* * *

 **Verity Alameda, 13  
Applicant #3**

* * *

"Honey! Hurry up!"

"Just give me a few more minutes!" she calls back, tromping through the mud. Her boots are flecked with the stuff; they're the only thing she's still required to wear now that it's moving into summer, if only to keep her feet from becoming so dirty. All of her layers - the hat and the scarves and the gloves - are tucked away until the snow starts falling again.

Which knowing Alaska, won't be that long at all.

Her mother is staring out the back window at her as she comes tromping past the backyard to the kennels. There's really no rush. She's so remote they're sending a car just for her, and there's at least twenty minutes before it's schedule to arrive. Provided whoever's come to pick her up doesn't run early, she has plenty of time.

Zeus starts up his howling the second he sees her, trotting up to the fence to greet her. Louie follows suit with Scout on his heels, Willow not far behind them. Her puppies are getting big enough now that she's started to leave them to toddle about on their own, but it's only a matter of time until the whole pack comes squeaking after her, tripping over their own paws. Especially when they notice a human presence.

"Hey buddy," she says, scratching behind Zeus' ears. "How are you today?"

He howls again, although this time it's quieter. She wonders if he can tell her ears are more in danger now.

She opens the gate and crouches down; Scout nearly bowls her over once she's on eye-level with them, and suddenly his big blue eyes are right in her face, tongue slobbering over her cheek.

"Okay, okay, I get it," she insists. "Down."

He obeys, although it looks like it's with some reluctance. His brown and gray fur is splattered all over with mud the same way her boots are but it doesn't appear to have dampened his spirits at all, ears pricked curiously.

"No treats today, sorry," she apologizes. "Just come to say goodbye. I won't see you for a bit."

He cocks his head, almost like he can understand her. Business is understandably slow in the summer months for a family that runs a sledding business, so it's mostly up to her to keep the dogs entertained and happy. Sure her father is up at the early hours of the morning to feed them and her mother and brother keep up with training them, but she has no doubt that they like her the best.

Today is the exception, but she does usually have her pockets full of treats.

Willow finally arrives, somehow managing to look more pristine than the rest of the group, herself included. Nearly tripping over her is Piper, one of the smallest of the litter. Her coat is almost entirely white, even today, and Verity scoops her up into her arms, trying to keep her away from the worst of the mud.

"Pretty girl," she coos, and Piper licks her face. She's going to have to wash her face before she gets in the car, lest whoever comes to retrieve her think she doesn't know how to shower, or something equally horrible. Just because she spends ninety-nine percent of her time outside, dirty, in the mud, doesn't mean she doesn't know how to be clean once in a while.

But only once in a while.

"Mom's gonna lose it if you don't come in soon!" Braxten yells from the back porch, and the dogs start howling again at the boom of his voice. She scratches at Zeus' ears again, rubs Louie's nose, runs her hands through the coarse fur along Willow's back.

She kisses the top of Piper's head and places the puppy back down by her mother's side. "Be good while I'm gone!"

She locks the gate and takes off for the house, splattering her brother with mud as she goes tearing into the back-room. He glares at her half-heartedly like he always does, rich for someone who's often covered in as much dirt as she is. They all need to take a breather - she's been fully packed for days, nothing but the boredom of the long, sticky summer months to keep her company. It hadn't been hard to force herself to pack.

"You're all dirty again," her mother complains.

She rolls her eyes. "I'm fine, mother. Don't worry about me."

"That's a mother's job," she replies. "I made you some hot chocolate for the ride - I know it's not so cold anymore, but it's your favorite. I thought you could use it."

As always, there's something ready for her. A willing, helping hand. Someone making her hot chocolate in the early afternoon to warm her up, even when she doesn't need the heat.

She scoops up the cup and takes a gulp. It scalds her tongue and the back of her throat all the way down but it's worth it, for the creaminess and the sweet syrup of the chocolate drizzled over the top, the little marshmallows that haven't melted their way into oblivion. She's still sipping away at it, a mug that will be empty by the time she gets anywhere of importance, when the car pulls up the drive.

The whole kennel starts up barking again at the sight of it. She can't see who's inside. It looks like a car fit for someone that means something in the grand schemes.

And surprise surprise, she still hasn't washed her face.

It looks like she'll be keeping up her regular appearance after all.

* * *

 **Trojan Geomantra, 18  
Applicant #22**

* * *

Trojan only had one goal in mind for the day, that being to get drunk enough that he was still the right amount of hungover the next morning in order to sleep right through whatever bus bullshit they intended to put him through.

It's not as easy as you'd think.

Tira and Vector have been arguing loudly enough across the room that he can hear them even from his position half-flopped over the edge of the couch, letting his fingers brush against the concrete floor. He's not sure about that. The two of them never argue about anything sensible and Vector adamantly refuses not to hit a girl, even though she'll hit him.

Anders took one look at him when he walked in this morning and went off muttering something about useless kids all the way to his office. Twenty minutes later Jessie and Tag got sent to run the job he was supposed to do in three days. He couldn't remember for the life of him what it was. Something about a rich family that owed Anders money after he cleaned up the evidence of the patriarch's multiple affairs.

He had been at some of those clean-ups. It hadn't been pretty.

At least the gang work in Two was easy. Rule-like, almost.

No one here knew what the word _rule_ even meant, anymore.

But they feed him if he goes out for them and give him shitty grain alcohol that Jessie makes in barrels in the back shed and frankly, that's good enough for him. He's got a roof over his head when it's too cold outside to wander about without something shriveling up. Anders doesn't totally hate him and usually gives him jobs that don't end in every article of clothing he owns being stained.

Usually.

He hasn't even gotten through his first glass when Jessie and Tag come stomping back in through the door with a bag. It's been hard to focus, anyway. Tira's got the lungs of a parrot and Vector just starts kicking things when he's angry. Jareth is throwing a metal can at the wall and letting it roll back to his feet ten feet away. Whoosh. Clank. Tinker all the way back to his feet. Repeat.

"What kind of name is Barnaby fucking Milivandi," Tag asks, and throws himself over Trojan's feet. He kicks him away and shoves his toes into Tag's side. "Guy's a prick."

"But his wife is still with him," he points out.

"She's a prick as well."

He's inclined to agree with that. He doesn't know the couple beyond the personal details that have been so helpfully and readily supplied to him, but they do seem like pricks. He's surprised they didn't come from the Capitol too.

"How's the drink?" Jessie asks.

"Terrible as always," he says, raising his glass to her, and she smirks as she spreads herself out on the floor. "How'd the job go?"

"Oh, you know. We argued with two security guards at the gate for ten minutes before they let us in, but the one couldn't figure out how to open the side entrance. Tag climbed the hedges before they got it open. Way too much work for a city boy such as yourself."

Tag goes off cackling, which adds to the cacophony of noises spreading around the room. Tira storms off and out the door - the metal slams back into place and shakes the whole foundation. Vector kicks the edge of a table and sends it skidding three feet across the room before he goes after her.

"Trouble in paradise," Jessie sighs. "Shame."

"Oh, who cares?" he asks. "That's how relationships go. Someone fucks something up and someone else gets angry and then that's how it ends. Evolution isn't making us any smarter in that regard."

"Christ," Tag mutters.

"What?" Jessie asks.

"Fuckin' Isaac Newton over here is off spewing about the natural evolution of mankind—"

"That's Darwin, genius."

"Fuck you, Jessie."

It was true, though. Things here had a pattern. Maybe it isn't the same for the rest of the world, but he has yet to find that particular place. Maybe no one really has. All he does know is that things follow an order. He does a job, he gets paid. He gets to keep the roof over his head and the terrible alcohol and his even more terrible friends.

He gets to satisfy the odd, inhuman little creature inside of him without it getting too dangerous. Anders always goes on the worst ones by himself, boss work. They never get involved. But he still gets to do other things. Crack someone's jaw open. Knock a few teeth down the back of something's throat so hard they cut the esophagus on the way down. Curl a few fingers back almost to the point of breaking.

Sometimes beyond it.

The normal, human side of him has no idea why the fuck he agreed to this; has no idea why he _willingly_ chose to take part it in. He was the one that filled out the application and sent it off, on his own time and of his own volition.

He ignores the bickering now going on to his left to take his longest swig yet. It burns all the way down like he just swallowed rubbing alcohol, but it's not a surprise and he doesn't so much as grimace. He wouldn't put it past Jessie if that so happened to be the main ingredient.

No, Trojan knows what part of him filled out that form.

It was the part that wonders.

And that part is usually the most dangerous one.

* * *

 **Jupiter Valentine, 18  
Applicant #9  
**

* * *

Jupiter had made a pact with themselves a year ago: they wouldn't step foot in the hospital again unless absolutely necessary.

Until today, they haven't. The good thing about the clinic closest to home is that they're fine with doing follow-up appointments. The doctor there is practically elderly, examining them and their charts through glasses so thick it would be a miracle if he could see anything at all, but that's fine. It's still better than the hospital, which they know like the back of their hand.

It's a maze to a newcomer - a second home to them. They know every back hallway and broom closet, the easiest way to get to the cafeteria while avoiding the crowds.

The girl at the sign-in desk is new, younger than Keely had been, but smiles politely at them regardless and foregoes pointing the way to the oncology department. Maybe that's the obvious, bit then - you don't need to point the way to that ward to a person with hardly any hair grown back. That's just silly.

They're old enough now that they'll never have to come back to the children's oncology ward. If they're lucky they'll never come back at all. They wouldn't find it so silly to suddenly be stuffed back in here, in a new department that they do not recognize with doctors and nurses that don't know them. That was the _only_ perk, and the reason they had stepped foot back in here. Friends. Practically family. People they had grown to know so closely it had felt like growing up with them when they were the only one doing any growing.

Or maybe not so much. They had been lucky to get past five feet, but no one had ever said it was because of the cancer.

Their mom was small, too. That had to be it.

They scrub their hand clean at the wash station by the door, all the way up to the elbow like usual. They know the perils of being stuck in a place like this. You rely on everyone walking in to do the most they can to keep you safe, and luckily they had for them.

It hadn't stopped the cancer from taking their legs, but it's been four years. Some things no one can do to stop.

It doesn't matter, anyhow. With pants as long as the ones they've got on, feet stuffed into boots that go up to the ankle, no one notices the prosthetics. Even if someone did no one would ask, the unspoken rule.

It's the hand that's troublesome, the one they don't have to wash so intently because it's made of plastic and metal, like an old chair. Or maybe that means they should wash it _more_ intently; no one really ever told them otherwise. When some of the nurses first met them they avoided talking about it like it was the threat of the bubonic plague looming on the horizon - look at that kid's missing arm and you'll lose yours too!

There's none of that now.

Audie stands up from behind the front desk at the sight of them and practically screeches, waving her hands around like a windmill. She jogs out from behind the desk and throws her arms around Jupiter, smothering them in a very tight, muscular grip, so unlike their own. But like before now Audie's arms don't feel as if they have the power to crush their ribs. Now they just feel comforting.

"Long time no see!" she cries. "How have you been, sweetheart? I saw the announcement on the news - that's exciting! You get to go away for a bit!"

Audie was like their mother when their mother couldn't be around, working long hours to pay for the chemotherapy. They don't look anything the same, it would be hard to, but they feel the warm embrace of a parent in her arms and trust it whole-heartedly. On days when they had no one else Audie was there looking in, playing games with them, giggling at their bedside, bringing one of the therapy dogs into their room to get an extra fifteen minutes in.

"I'm great," they say, and the feeling that washes over them is warm. Warm like the sun. Warm like the truth. "Really great. Really excited, too."

"Oh, you should be, dear," Audie says. "You deserve to get to go away and have some fun, make some friends."

"That's the goal," they confirm. They finally have a stepping stone to get out of this sickly rut and do something more, whatever it may be. They get to smile and feel like it's warranted.

"I'm sure everyone's going to love you," Audie insists, wrapping an arm around their shoulders. "How could they not?"

"I hope so." They smile. An eighteen year old, a year out of the hospital, smiling at the thought of finally making a real set of friends. Who would've thought?

They had, at least. They had always been hopeful even when no one else had.

"We'll have to make a lunch date when you get back," Audie says. "Me and you, and Beatrix as well. I'm sure Rae will want to come too, if we can all coordinate something. You'll have to tell us all about it."

"Sounds perfect."

Audie smiles as well, jostling them a bit, and starts to lead them down the hall. Probably off in search of someone else to spread the news to, if Audie hasn't done it already. Certainly there's someone here that deserves a bit of good news, or even a smile. Someone has to. They know it the same way they knew they'd beat the cancer, one day. They always did.

Maybe not everyone can think that way, but they can.

At the end of the day, that's the only thing that matters.

* * *

Just to be clear - Jupiter is genderfluid, and is comfortable with any pronouns, but for the sake of continuity and not confusing the masses, I'll be sticking to they/them unless otherwise specified in another point of view.

Let me know what you thought of this bunch, as always.

Until next time.


	8. Midsummer Madness

V.

* * *

 **Soran Faerber, 18  
Applicant #8**

* * *

Six in the morning is the worst kind of time.

It's the time when everyone is just starting to wake up, if their life deems it so. There's just enough disturbance that it can be annoying, but not enough that anyone else would understand it.

And in Soran's eyes, it's far too early to be awake, period. Definitely too early to be wandering the streets all the way to the Justice Building from the Academy, when they're across the District from each other. It seems almost counter-productive, to have housing so damn far away from everything else. No one wants to walk this far.

Except for him, apparently. They didn't exactly give him a choice in the matter.

The bus driver, when he finally tracks her down, looks just as exhausted as Soran feels. She looks at the ID he hands her with a level of disinterest reserved only for someone that's been forced to deal with several grumpy teenagers at this hour. The way she takes his bag and ushers him on-board makes him grow concerned for where his bag actually ends up, but she sits back down on the steps to wait, and he doesn't think kicking her off them to go and check would help anyone's situation.

There's already one other person on the bus, sitting in the middle row. Soran reckons this guy probably fits One a lot better than he does, but he doesn't look all that offensive. It's not like he can raise the energy to be a dick this early anyway.

"Hey, man," the guy says. "Meliodas. Mel's good, though. I'll be honest, I didn't even think there'd be anyone else from One."

"Soran," he answers, and drops himself down a row back on the opposite side. "Looks like she's still waiting, so there must be at least one more."

"Jesus," Mel mutters. "One did really good this year."

"Good considering none of us were even born here?"

"Touché. How long have you been here?"

"Since I was seven."

Mel gives him a look. "You're what - seventeen? Eighteen?"

"Eighteen."

If you could ever see the cogs visibly turning in someone's eyes, Soran would be seeing it right now. Eleven years. Two extra years before the rebellion, before everything changed. Two very long, important years that no one from One would've been living in the Capitol during.

Mel frowns. He smiles.

He's sure he's about to be questioned further, as Mel would have every right to do, when someone else ascends the steps at the front of the bus. Bus is a very generous term; there's only the three rows, and a bathroom at the back. They could've just sent a car and told them all to suck it up.

The new arrival is clearly coming to that realization as well. He takes in all of his surroundings, and then stares at the two of them for so long that the bus driver actually nudges him to get out of the way. Only then does he move, and very carefully takes a seat in front of Soran, still looking like he'd rather be getting hit by the bus than be sitting on it.

A feeling Soran is wondering if he'll understand, sooner rather than later.

Mel hasn't even said anything. None of them have. The bus starts with no fanfare, no grand announcement, and the door slams shut. They begin to inch down the road at a snail's pace. Well, at least the seats are comfortable. It appears they're going to be stuck in them for quite a while.

Mel eventually extends a hand towards their third party member, but Soran busies himself with stretching out across both seats. If it's going to be hours upon hours, he may as well get some sleep before they get to the Capitol. There's definitely nothing better to do.

He's not entirely sure what happens in all his shuffling about, but it involves quite a bit of graceless flailing, and Mel eventually turning to watch him. His knees knock against the seats in front of him, and a moment later the other guy's head pops over the seat, glaring at him.

"How old are we, again?" he asks.

"Already answered that question," he fires back, uncaring for when he actually said the words. "And that was an accident, for your information, but now I'm going to do it on purpose."

"Delightful," he mutters, and turns around. Soran feels like delightful is exactly the type of word that always comes out of his mouth.

Mel, dare he say it, has an amused quirk to his lips. "Soran, this is Icarus. Icarus - Soran."

"Delightful," Soran echoes, and throws himself back into the seat once again, making sure to nudge his foot against the back of Icarus' chair before he settles for good. He closes his eyes, after that, but he's sure the heated glare from over the seat once again isn't his imagination.

It's not as comfortable as he imagined it would be. He rolls over onto his side, even though he's got something digging painfully into his ribs, and his knees are a very dangerous half an inch from the back of Icarus' chair. Mel glances between them again before he lifts his headphones back up, shaking his head in amusement.

"You having fun over there?" Mel asks him.

"The most."

"I thought you were asleep," Icarus says incredulously.

"My apologies. I didn't know my inability to fall asleep in six and a half seconds would be offensive to you."

Icarus sighs. It's so loud he's surprised the whole bus doesn't shake with it. Mel leans back too, and even though he can no longer hear that amused half-smile is still plastered on his face.

Soran doesn't know if he was speaking only for himself, or the whole bus.

They'll be having lots of fun, here.

The _most_ _._

* * *

 **Tarquin Vierra, 16  
Applicant #4**

* * *

"Are you sure you want to wear that, dear?"

"We're a block away," Dad answers. "It's not like he can change now. Besides, he looks fine."

"But I bought that nice suit," his mother insists, and swivels around in the front seat to pin him with a look. "Did you even pack it?"

Did he? Tarquin has not the faintest, vaguest clue. He pretty much just collected every item within arms-length last night and tossed it in his suitcase, once he realized that he had to go to sleep, or he wasn't going to wake up nearly early enough to feel appropriately ready for this. It had been a scatter-brained, mess of a situation that had resulted in him nearly choking on his granola bar this morning.

He doesn't think he did, though, and his mother realizes that as well. He's sure she hung it all the way in the back of his closet, a space he didn't even come close to touching.

The car rounds the last corner, and he sets eyes on the station. Amaranthine Station is the biggest transportation hub in the entire Capitol, and it shows. It's still easy to pick out the rather hefty handful of people milling around one of the biggest buses he's ever laid eye on.

He doesn't know if it's just the kids from the Capitol, or if everyone's gotten here already.

But it doesn't matter. He's here.

Tarquin pulls at the door handle, even though they're nowhere near stopped. His mother turns again, but this time her normally rational, even gaze is replaced by a death glare. He very slowly removes his hand.

"Are you really that excited to leave us?" she asks.

"Not excited to leave you," he insists. "Just... excited. I know you would've rather me stay here and start work with Dad, but—"

"I want you to do whatever makes you happy, sweetheart. I just want you to be practical as well."

"He can start work with me when he gets back," his father answers.

The issue is, practical's not a word often found in his vocabulary. He doesn't want to work with his father managing talent; he wants to _be_ the talent. And he knows his mother has his best interests at heart, but he's also convinced that she would have torn the official announcement letter he received to bits, if they weren't going to announce it on the television anyway.

She doesn't want to see him fail. But judging by the fact that half the content's of his suitcase is probably a random piece of a theater outfit, maybe _she's_ the one that's failed.

There's nothing but things to gain here. Knowledge to have, facts to absorb. All things that might allow him to play out history one day, if he's lucky.

No, not lucky. Good. The best.

And that's what he wants to be.

His father puts the car in park, just out of reach of the bus. "Alright, a minute before you run off. Behave. We'll be waiting right here when you get back. If you need anything, you tell one of the instructors to get a hold of you. Understand?"

"I got it, Dad—"

"And _behave_."

"You said that already."

His father shakes his head, and he offers a smile. "Anything else?"

"Nope, go ahead. Love you."

"You too," he quips, and then kisses them both on the cheek, already sliding out the back door, suitcase in tow. There are random things clunking around in it, mismatched shoes and hats, items of clothing he definitely won't need but has.

He turns, hardly ten feet from the car. "Don't forget to give Calix his birthday present! It's on the twenty-first! Under my bed, remember, at the back corner—"

"We can handle it!" she shouts. "Go on!"

He does, spinning around so fast on his heels that his suitcase nearly careens over before he manages to right it. He hears the car pull off as he approaches the few people lingering around the door. His heart's already going at the thought of those new people, even if he is missing one of his best friend's birthday's for it. He hopes the gift can make up for it.

He knows he sticks out, but he doesn't feel like it by the looks of these people. The few there still around at his approach. The green hair usually does it, even though he left the roots dark to appease his mother. It's the equivalent of a neon sign.

"Sorry to say, but the green hair is trademarked," the one guy says.

" _Percy."_

"Aw, it was a joke."

"He looks better with it than you," another girl says, and the one green-haired one, Percy, looks at her in mock disgust. Or genuine disgust. Tarquin isn't all the way sure.

She looks at him though, ignoring whatever offense Percy has taken up. "Nice outfit. The Dark Days called - I think they're looking for it."

"I'm pretty sure nobody in the Dark Days dressed that way," Percy offers up.

"Still better than the way you're dressing,"

"Says you. You're hardly wearing any clothes."

"You wouldn't either, if you looked like me," she insists, and Tarquin feels inclined to agree with her. If he dared to spend that much money on tattoos, he wouldn't be wearing clothes to hide them either. She disappears up the steps to the bus, clearly waiting for them. Percy stares after her for a moment, and then turns back to him.

"Seriously. Totally 1500's."

The girl snorts. "Well, I call sitting with Shakespeare, then. You guys can continue sitting together and doing whatever it is you were doing before."

Tarquin feels as if he should laugh, but doesn't. Percy and Miss. Tattoo and the guy who has only spoken once, to chastise Percy in the first place - they're all quite the group. He doesn't think he's going to help by adding to it, not one bit.

It still doesn't stop him from holding his hand out, feeling like a complete idiot the whole while. "Tarquin. Shakespeare's fine too. Nice to meet you."

* * *

 **Noelani Westmoreland, 16  
Applicant #11**

* * *

The bus was an odd kind of terrifying.

It was like walking into a store that had too many things on display. Not that Four had many of those going on - most of them were quaint little seaside sweet shops or bookstores, a few markets spread out along the coast. That's not what people moved to there for, anyway.

Topher didn't seem fazed by any of it, was the worst part. He went tearing through the bus without so much of a look of care towards anyone watching, and she lost him in the thick of things almost instantly. Swallowed up like he had stepped into the gaping maw of a monster.

She wasn't surprised. Like she said, it was crowded like a market.

But the bus was something else. It felt almost like she _had_ to be the very last person to arrive, because if anyone else came up behind her to board it would be too crowded. There wasn't enough space for anymore than twenty-four of them, and even the bus driver seems inclined to agree with her.

There wasn't much Noelani could do about it, though. She smiles at everyone who glances at her, carefully plans out the path of her feet as she makes her way down the aisleway, trying to avoiding stepping on as much as she humanly can. She's sure somewhere in there at least one or two of her fellow applicants get tread on, but again. Not much she can do about it, and the volume level is so loud that her apologies are falling on deaf ears.

Someone lunges out of their chair, shouting something, and nudges her in the hip. Nudges is a generous term. She trips as someone's bag comes skidding out into the row and nearly collapses on top of the nearest person, a boy who isn't even looking her way.

A hand locks around her elbow before she can even begin her descent, and she goes spinning around, knocking into two more seats before she finally comes to a halt. Someone goes sprinting by her, fast as they can, and all she sees is a whirlwind of rainbow hair before she loses sight of them in the chaos.

"Hey, way to be a dick!" a girl calls, nearly standing up in her chair next to the window. It appears as if she's yelling at the nudging offender, who Noelani can't even pick out of the crowd.

"I don't think he meant to," she offers, hoping, anyway. It's not the girl that's holding onto her but her seatmate, a boy that looks slightly younger. His hair is by far more neon than hers, brighter, but she latches onto the green as some form of safety. A comfort blanket. He holds onto her arm until she can safely swivel behind him, depositing herself into the empty aisle seat a row back. There's a girl staring out the window next to her, headphones in, looking like she'd rather crawl six feet underground than turn around to say hello, or anything of the sort.

Well, she can't act like that forever, and Noelani knows it. Not with her around.

Her stuff in itself is organized chaos, but she clutches at her bag and her sketchbook until everyone around her finally stops moving. Finally it appears safe enough to drop the bag in-between her feet.

Everyone in the vicinity is still looking at her, though. At their newest arrival. Even the girl next to her is trying to side-eye her as discreetly as possible, brushing bright blue strands of hair over her eyes like that helps at all.

"You draw?" the first girl asks. "Come up with a new tattoo for me. You're Noelani, right?"

She blinks in surprise, when it shouldn't really come as a surprise at all. The girl is practically covered in them, after all. It's the name thing that freaks her out. She definitely doesn't know who this girl is, and has never met her before.

"Excuse pseudo-stalker Myra." The boy smiles, and again. Comfort blanket type of thing. And he's not nearly as intimidating as Myra is. "I'm Tarquin. And that's Ria, if you were wondering. It also took me nearly fifteen minutes to get that out of her, so I hope you appreciate that."

She can't help the smile - it seems stupid not to. She does appreciate it, but knows deep down that she would have spent triple the amount of time working away at Ria until she got that information, and then some. They're probably the same age. If anyone can get to Ria, it's her. She files that away for later, once things have calmed down.

She also can't help but wonder if Ria's music might not be as loud as they thought, judging by the side-eye she's now fixing Tarquin with.

He smiles. Ria looks away.

"Those are actually really good, though," he continues, pointing at some of the scribbles on the cover of her sketchbook. "Been practicing for a long time?"

"Really long time. Just for fun, though. My parents thought that I would be good at designing mutts for the Games when I was like, six. I just like it as a hobby. But I guess my mom thinks I can go somewhere serious with it."

"Sounds like my mom."

"Must be nice, having a doting caring mother and not a dead one," Myra says casually, and Noelani snaps her mouth shut. Even Ria looks up, staring at the back of Myra's chair with a mildly horrified expression.

Myra turns, though, and smirks. "That was a joke, losers."

That doesn't mean Noelani has a single clue about what to say, a million different directions running through her head. She can't settle on just one, though, a panic rapidly building up. If she doesn't quell it something stupid is going to come out. That, or she'll never say anything again.

As unlikely as that is.

Everyone else seems equally at a loss for words. Tarquin busies himself looking through his backpack, though it looks half empty, so she flips her sketchbook open. At least it's something to stare at, instead of the back of Myra's head.

It's more than she thought, actually. The angle's not the greatest, but she can at least see some of the artwork extending from Myra's shoulders down the tops of her arms, and she studies it for a second before she puts pencil to paper. Maybe Myra's not serious, maybe she never was, but Noelani doesn't have a serious bone in her body either.

It's almost like a dare. And if it's going to be a long journey, she might as well do something during it.

* * *

 **Sabre Hennedige, 15  
Applicant #6**

* * *

He likens the bus to a crowd watching a dance number.

It's easier that way. Having something to relate it to, a long-dead familiarity, makes his slow crawl down the middle aisle seem less like a mistake and more like something he meant to do. Something with purpose. It makes it feel like he's a single step away from flinging the curtain aside and taking the stage, toes curling against the worn wooden boards, a second of nervousness before he pushes it far away.

His toes are curling up now, too, but no one can see that through his shoes.

If it's not nervousness, he's not sure what it is. He lets his toes flatten out again the second he finds a seat, right up against the woefully empty back. That's odd, he knows, but not from experience. He never had to get on a bus to attend dancing lessons. School in Two is only a few block away. He knows that because he started to time the minutes it would take him to walk there - twenty-five to thirty seconds after the first janitor arrived in the morning, still putting his keys away when he would let Sabre in one of the side doors.

There's only one other person anywhere near him, and he nearly misses her. She's hunched over something. It's the little clicking sound that finally makes him turn and see her, the sound of a button repeatedly being pushed and getting stuck from how many times it's been used. The camera in her hands is nicer than most people would have access to, but he can see the damage at the corners where it's been knocked into things, the faded gray-black of the strap.

It's well-worn. Used often. Like his dancing shoes.

She turns the camera up. Not towards him, but he still feels himself about to shy away regardless. She only lowers it when she notices him sitting there and her smile could be as bright as he assumes the flash would be, had the camera gone off.

"Hey," she says. Her voice is very cheery for how isolated they are back here. "Sorry, I can get a little... absorbed. My brother says I spend way too much time looking at my camera, but what does he know, right? You can't do it _too much_."

The words _too much_ send him spinning right back through the doors of Cortague's Dance Academy. Maybe to this girl there's nothing that gets quite to the point of too much, but not in his life. He remembers Imogen taking him aside three weeks before they kicked him out and telling him that he needed to take it easy. That he was over-working himself too much. He remembers only being able to focus on how healthy and strong she looked, how happy she looked to be teaching them all what she had spent so much time learning.

He remembers Nikolai trying to do too much when he lifted Victoire up and over his head, and how when he had spun her around it had been too fast. When she landed it had been too fast.

Victoire's parents had come in three days later to talk to Imogen about it, about their daughter's leg and the bone that had cracked out of it after Nikolai hadn't put her down properly. She would be lucky to walk without a limp again, they had said. Let alone dance.

Worst of all he remembers sitting in the bathroom while everyone else was down in the mess hall. The bones in the back of his shoulders had been digging harshly into the tiled wall when Evianna Tran had come running in, so fast that she didn't see him lurking there behind the door. The retching sounds that had come from one of the stalls had nearly made him throw up himself. They had nearly made him leave.

But he didn't - he was still there when she came sliding out of the stall, eyes widening when she had finally noticed him standing there.

It had been a very awkward, long moment where Sabre couldn't find any words.

Evianna had, though. "I ate too much. I felt sick."

He nodded, though. Stood there and let her wash her hands before she had returned to the mess hall, he knew, not to eat another bite.

He knew exactly how that felt.

"Hey," the girl repeats, and he blinks. The camera is right in his face, and the flashbulb goes off before he can say otherwise, before he can back away. He flinches at the proximity and squeezes his eyes shut. She pulls the camera back and looks down at the screen, nodding sagely.

"I wasn't ready for that," he protests weakly.

"Aw, it looks great though!" she insists, and turns the camera back to him. The picture of him reflected back on the screen isn't perfectly clear, no doubt from how fast he moved. His eyes are squinted awkwardly, mouth pursed. He can see where his collarbones are jutting out of his jacket, where the little silver hoops in his ears look too big for his face.

"It doesn't."

"It does," she tells him. "Your facial structure is wicked. It would look so good in some natural lightning. The bus kinda sucks for that—"

As quick as she says it she moves onto something else. He shrinks back in his chair when she stands up, shouting over the rest of the noise floating from the front of the bus. She's holding the camera up, waving it around like it's not fragile. Like it couldn't be broken.

She's tall. Taller than he would have expected, seeing her sitting down.

Tall enough to be a dancer, like him.

 _Not like him_ , he reminds himself. Not anymore.

"C'mon, group picture!" she crows. "Everyone cooperate, so help me God—"

It doesn't look like she's getting much cooperation. Sabre wouldn't have expected anything less. Getting twenty-two other teenagers to cooperate long enough to get a unified, put-together group photo won't happen unless there's some sort of authority behind it. Even getting Kidava Vaud, someone he doesn't know well at all, to cooperate, wont work. This girl doesn't have the authority.

Something he doesn't have either, really.

At least he has the autonomy to know that now.

* * *

Intro's almost done, y'all. What a blessing!

I'll see you again next weekend for the last round. For now let me know what you thought of these four and of everyone meeting for the first time!

Until next time.


	9. Death In Disguise

VI.

* * *

 **Topher Westmoreland, 12**  
 **Applicant #24**

* * *

"Is that your sister?"

Topher's not even sure where the words come from, only that they're somewhere in the vicinity. He hears them loud as day, like they were spoken directly into his ear. The girl in the row ahead of him, the one with one arm, definitely hasn't even looked in his direction. Not her.

The one sitting beside her, then. The one with the vibrant purple hair. It's just as bright as Noelani's is, the far away galaxy instead of the every-day sky. She's eyeing him up like he's a small little bug pinned to a cork-board, and he does everything not to shrink in his seat away from the gaze.

There's a boy across the row with purple hair too, although it looks like it's faded a bit. "Must be. Same last name and everything."

"Yeah, she's my sister," he offers, smiling. "Step-sister technically, but you know."

"I do not," the girl says, and turns back to the other girl sitting at her side. They go back to talking quietly under their breath, and he stares for a moment. They don't look like they know each other, but they're talking like they do. Perhaps he should have stayed closer to Noelani instead of charging off; at least that would have guaranteed some level of conversation on the journey to somewhere.

There's enough commotion going on but he hears a burst of it, just before he sees someone guide Noelani into a seat several rows up. There's no room up there for him to sit, not even close.

Guess he's stuck here.

It's not against his will. _He's_ the one that wanted to come. Noelani had only applied because their parents had seemed so adamant about not letting him go off anywhere alone, not at his age. It's not like he had played concerts for bigger crowds than this, or anything. They still wanted him to have a supervisor.

There's a girl about his age looking back and forth between the two of them. It's not much, but he sees a little smirk grace her face before she pushes her glasses back up her nose and settles back into her seat.

He doesn't even want to know what that's all about.

The bus driver settles back into his seat so he does the same. At his back is only one more person, and he watches the hand of their prosthetic arm clench as they step into the aisleway. It can't be that nerve-wracking. It's only twenty-three other people and a driver; nothing to really be concerned about. He can't even imagine what's running through their head to look that anxious.

They make their way further, further. Topher can tell what's about to happen before it does. They lay eyes on him, and he gets it even though he doesn't want to. He's small. Smaller than most people. Unassuming. Not quite as loud or as bright as some of the people in the immediate area. Of all the people to chose he's probably the least intimidating, and one of the only ones still with a vacant seat next to him.

"Mind if I sit?" they ask, and he shuffles over to the window, patting the seat next to him. The boy across the aisle is eyeing them up too, watching. Topher doesn't even notice their odd, lurching sort of gate until they slide into the seat beside him, adjusting their legs into a comfortable position.

He's not sure what to think. Does he ask? Do you ever ask in a situation like this? Clearly the hand is one thing, but possibly the legs too?

He wants to ask more badly than he's ever wanted to ask anything, and clamps his mouth shut. He busies himself with pulling out some of his sheets instead, something to study while everyone settles down into their spot for the foreseeable future. He has another concert two weeks after they get back, as he keeps reminding Noelani. Just because she has nothing to do doesn't mean he doesn't.

When he looks back up, spreading some of the music sheets across the lap, purple boy and possible-prosthetics are talking quietly across the aisle. How did he miss _that_ entire exchange? And why do they seem more keen to talk to each other than to him?

So much for being the best prospect, the least intimidating. Someone they've decided that conversing with a boy with a nose ring shinier than anything is safer than talking to him.

He almost wants to interject. Wants to insert himself. He's not sure it would even work. Neither of them are looking in his direction.

Neither of them really seems to care.

He lounges back against the seat and sighs, lifting up some of the sheets. He already has them practically memorized - he's not sure why he felt the need to bring them. To show them off? To prove that he had something of his own? To prove that he deserves this?

It doesn't matter. No one cares about that here.

He sighs again.

It's going to be a long ride.

* * *

 **Jupiter Valens, 14  
Applicant #16**

* * *

He thought he had positioned himself in the perfect spot.

There's only so many definitions of perfect, though, and his ended before he even got here. Finding out that there were no girls his age didn't exactly put a damper on things, though. _Nothing_ would be able to do that. There were still plenty of options, girls back home to impress.

Only issue is that his options here didn't seem so willing to play along.

Kidava had seemed like a good option. She was cute enough, fifteen, sitting by herself. He would be fifteen in a few months - he could make do with that.

He came here for a few reasons, reasons that had led Franco to call him a ridiculous dolt when he found out, but what did his brother know? His brother was nearly six feet tall and has muscles to boot - something he wasn't graced enough to have yet. Of course his brother always said he would sprout up one day or another, the way he had, but he didn't want to wait all that time.

Maybe this little trip could help him be stronger. More impressive.

And, in a shocking twist of fate, Kidava Vaud hadn't shared those same reasons. Not even close.

The second she had started spewing off some nonsense or other about the Games - five different Games, in fact, from four different decades, he had very unintentionally tuned her out. The fact that she had that much information stored away in her brain was astounding in the first place, sure, but overwhelming for him.

She's in the middle of saying something, a spiel about a District kid he didn't know from a bloodbath he sure as hell didn't remember, when he starts literally crawling his way over the set of seats in front of him. Kidava cuts herself off, mouth hanging open.

"Alright, fuck you too," she says, and he offers a half-hearted wave behind him as he goes tumbling into the seat ahead of hers.

"Are you fucking serious?" Soran asks as he lands gracelessly on his legs, spread out over the second seat.

"You have two seats to yourself, dude."

"For a reason, _dude_ ," Soran fires back. "If you don't get off me—"

"Got it, loud and clear," he says quickly, and shoves Icarus' head to the side in the row ahead to vault past him. Icarus makes an alarmed noise; the little girl beside him looks up, half-amused, and Meliodas is chortling across the aisle like it's the greatest thing he ever witnessed.

Close enough.

He continues on with his climb forward. He can see Caiman a few rows ahead, he thinks her name is. Another fifteen year. Another possibility, if not for the fact that the girl beside her turns around with a look that he's surprised doesn't set him on fire in the next second. He hears that loud and clear, too. The commotion he's creating back here is not welcome up there. Got it.

He nearly plants his hand on a girl's head at the next aisle - she's hunched over in her seat, as small as she could possibly get. He retracts his hand and wobbles all in the same second, trying to keep his balance with his knees balanced precariously on the seatbacks.

"Ria, watch it, before he squashes you."

He wobbles again for a long moment before he manages to settle into a semi-comfortable position. Ria, who must be the girl trying to fuse herself to the window in her quest to avoid being squashed, looks like she's either about to flee the scene or wrap her headphone cords around his rather scrawny neck and hope for the best. He won't lie - she'd probably win.

He turns to the other voice, instead, the girl who spoke in the first place. Ria seems terrifying, for some out-of-place reason, like she should only exist in some liminal space that doesn't make any sense. The other girl is not that at all - he turns towards her and stops, kind of awkwardly, mouth slightly agape as whatever he was going to say very kindly fucks off into next week.

"Hi," he manages eventually, cursing his own stupidity. He only has a few short, precious seconds to recover here.

He sticks his hand out, hating himself all the while. "I'm Jay. And you are?"

She taps her pencil a few times on the sketchbook he hadn't noticed before, but doesn't lift a hand. "Noelani. Are you really Jay?"

"Jupiter. But I heard we had another, so..."

He trails off. He didn't think beyond this second. Normally he could turn this situation on its head quicker than someone could even blink, have someone eating out of the palm of his hand, but not her. Noelani has hair that almost looks like the ocean, and that's really all he can manage to think about.

She's also most definitely older than him, and no doubt taller. Curse his pre-pubescent life all to hell.

He tries to settle in a bit more, folding his arms cross the top of the seat. It's a good thing he has balance, above all things. This time he takes care to avoid Ria's head as he does so, whom Noelani seems ready to leap to the defense of. The two people in the aisle up are both staring at him, half-curious and half-amused. Waiting to see what will happen next.

"So," he asks slowly. "Mind if I stay here?"

"No," she says. "But Ria might."

God, this is going to be harder than he thought, isn't it? Ria looks up at him with a slight roll of the eyes, pressing her lips together. There's a million words behind those lips of hers and he's only going to hear maybe three of them, if that.

Those few words are going to make or break him right now.

He doesn't plan on letting them break him.

* * *

 **Caiman Mangle, 15  
Applicant #21**

* * *

From far away the complex doesn't look like much.

It looks like something, of course. Anything would look like something after the amount of hours they've all spent crammed in this bus together like sardines. There hadn't even been much to look at in all the hours of their journey. None of the land had been anything really worth looking at after they got not too far out of the Capitol. Then the mountains had disappeared and it had just turned into hundreds of miles of scrubby rock and the barest amount of greenery.

Nothing like what she lived in now. Out here there wasn't much one would want to go hiking through, and it appeared most of her companions felt the same way. At least half of them had drifted off at some point after the sun had gone down. She was stuck with her eyes glued to the horizon, looking for something. Anything.

Verity had noticed it first, a row ahead. From her slumped position against the window Caiman had watched the other girl sit up until she had finally felt compelled to do so as well. There was a little set of lights far off in the distance. Not a city. Not a District. She didn't even know what District they could possibly be closest to at the moment. One? Three? Even the outer Districts didn't look this barren, not even Ten.

She had fired off a quick message to her parents two hours ago, and almost felt tempted to send another. Was this not sketchy? No one really _knew_ the bus driver, just that he looked like a fairly unoffensive older man. They had no one else with him.

She had been sketched out by the whole prospect of this since the second it got announced.

That's why she was here, wasn't it? Because she couldn't resist finding out what it was really all about.

It makes it worse that Verity looks so excited at the prospect of their imminent arrival, where she just feels apprehension. All of the horrors that this country has endured, kids just like them, and they still see it fit to send another group of them off.

It just doesn't feel right.

"What's with the face?" Meris asks beside her. "You look like you're about to throw up."

It's maybe the third thing Meris has said to her in the past four hours, maybe the fifth that she's said since the two of them would up sitting together.

"You're not nervous at all about who could be dealing with us the next few days? Or what we could be doing?"

"Learning about the Games, apparently," Meris answers, shrugging. "Not like you can change it now. What are you gonna do, tuck and roll off the bus and take off running?"

She's right. Home is far, far away. All her hiking in the past few years still hasn't taught her how to properly navigate her way through unfamiliar terrain, especially without a compass.

"I'm sure it's fine," Meris says. "Thought it does look a little bit like a prison."

A little. There's no barbed wire fences, at least. There is a line of fencing but also a huge open space that the bus drives through, and it doesn't look like there's a gate. Meris is right - even if one of them left, where would they go? Off to die in the desert?

Besides that the series of buildings is long and flat; without any lights illuminating the grounds she probably wouldn't even have been able to pick it out from the rest of the world. It's not so bad, though. There are windows everywhere. A long, winding main drive. There are even a few well-managed trees and shrubs lining the dusty road, clinging to the dryness of their home against the winds.

If prison's had a gardener, this would be it.

"Okay, okay, move," Verity says, so loud that half the bus must hear her. She pokes Damas' sleeping form in the shoulder and then clambers over him when he refuses to move, knocking him in the chest with her backpack. He startles awake, blinking frantically as she hits the aisleway running, fleeing for the door.

Trojan and Meliodas are the two that follow after her, the two that have been wandering the aisle the most.

The perils of long-legged people cooped up on a too small bus.

She waits for Meris to get up before she follows, forcing herself to take her time. There's no rush for any of this - whatever waits on the other side is still going to be there no matter how long she takes. There's an entire crowd behind her waiting to get off - she has no chance at being the last one.

Her feet hit the dusty ground and she exhales. The dust brushing against her cheeks actually feels good compared to the staleness of the bus, the scent of whatever snacks someone had managed to smuggle away in their backpack.

There's already a woman outside, a small group of others behind her. Caiman feels something in her relax at the sight of how calm the woman looks, like all the patience of an experienced mother as she stops before the lot of them smiling.

"I can't believe we have to do that bus ride again," Verity complains, looking up to the woman. "That was terrible."

"It's a good thing we've got a hovercraft planned for your ride back to the Capitol, then," she answers, and a few people behind her let out half-hearted cheers, made weaker by the exhaustion running through their bones. She nearly smiles before she remembers her apprehension. Her suspicions.

"I'm Renette Iravani," she answers. "One of your instructors and the person you can come to should you have any concerns or questions. I look forward to getting to know each and everyone of you individually - I hope that this can be a learning experience for you all, and a good time as well."

There's another little cheer at that. Caiman forces herself to take a deep breath so that her chest hurts less, so that her heart isn't thumping so hard.

There's nothing wrong. Nothing to be concerned about.

Renette smiles. "Welcome to the Fortuna Institute."

* * *

 **Damas Mancer, 13  
Applicant #12**

* * *

There's so many people he's not even sure to latch onto.

Verity had seemed like the safest option, but Verity also seems chatty enough on her own. She would make friends well enough. It appears that she's already integrated herself into a group of boys and girls alike and he can't force himself to walk over there and join their conversation. He thought it would be at least slightly easier to get started on this whole process.

No one really seems interested in him.

It's not a surprise. It's something he's grown used to, really.

He shifts his bag on his shoulders and shuffles his feet through the dirt, glancing around. The lights are bright but the area surrounding them is otherwise dark as ink; when he looks up he can make out more stars than he can ever make out at home. When he lets his eyes wander he can find Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, Cassiopeia, the summer triangle far to the east. The center of the galaxy is floating right above their heads and clearly no one is going to pay it any mind, save for him.

Why would they, though? Everyone is blending in amongst each other, talking or taking each other in. If they're not talking they're at least closer to someone else than he is, lurking at the back of the pack like the runt of the litter. He's definitely the smallest, too - even Verity has an inch or two on him, let alone the twelve year old girl who walks likes she's a giant with great big thundering feet.

He doesn't think Faye wandered out of one of the storybooks Cicero always read to him when he was little, though. He couldn't be that lucky, to even get one small reminder of his brother.

Maybe he shouldn't have come. Maybe Old Man Red who lives down the road all the way in the bush is right - maybe this _is_ just death in disguise.

Filling out the form he thought three things: friends, maybe. Maybe not. _Probably_ not, judging by his current status. If they're going down that track then this experience definitely won't make his life better. It won't open up the possibilities he thought would be here.

He's the only one hiding the third option behind his eyes. He can tell. No one else here looks like they're about to off themselves. Not even close.

He hadn't pulled Death from the reading he did the morning before he left, though. That's what Damas has expected, if he was being honest. An obvious sign of what was to come, of some sort of grand upheavel in his future.

The Hierophant had been the first card. That one, at least, had seemed obvious. The New Haven program was after all having quite a big effect on his current life and he was looking for a sense of belonging that didn't exist anywhere else for him. At least that was a card that felt applicable unlike so many of his other readings. Sometimes he pulled Temperance - sometimes he pulled The Star and wonder if anything the card told him would ever feel real.

Sometimes he pulled The Hanged Man and wondered if the universe was calling to him.

The second had been The Wheel of Fortune; change was coming, as if he hadn't known that. His mom had laughed in glee when she had shown it to him; she had never understood Tarot, had never tried to, but at his mention of it possibly bringing good luck had been as happy as a mother could been.

Nine years since Cicero had died, and she had finally started laughing again.

The third: The Tower. Damas still didn't know how he felt about that one. If the card was talking about this place, then collapse was imminent. They weren't often wrong.

If the card was talking about him, then he didn't get it. He wasn't sturdy nor stable. There was no risk of collapse when he was already on the ground.

"Hey, kid."

Damas looks up and fiddles with his hands at the sight of a six foot something man staring down at him. Man wasn't the right word; he wasn't all that old. Late twenties, perhaps, and his cheeks dimpled when he smiled, making him seem even younger.

The rest of the group had moved some paces away, it seemed. Perhaps they were following Renette inside - he wasn't tall enough to tell through the mass of them.

"I'm Nyko," the man says. "With any luck I'll be the one supervising you, so I thought I'd introduce myself early. How are you doing?"

"I haven't decided yet," he says quietly. "Do you think I should walk with everyone else?"

He's not usually so honest, not even with himself. But Nyko is a stranger, or at least he was. Maybe that just makes it easier.

"Do you want to?" Nyko asks.

He looks at the group, and then shakes his head. So much for his wishful thinking of making some lifelong friends, of finally having someone to phone on the weekends when he just wanted to chat.

"Then don't," he says, and shrugs. "Will you walk with me?"

He looks casual, something Damas wishes he felt. Every muscle in his shoulders is coiled tight like he's about to punch the guy, something everyone knows he'd never do. It's the fight or flight kicking in, his confusion in a situation almost completely unfamiliar to him.

"Sure," he decides finally. It's that or walk alone.

Nyko smiles and starts walking. He hurries to catch up to his longer strides, picking his feet up this time instead of letting them slide through the dust like before. It's easier to keep up that way.

If Death wants to be chosen, then it can wait.

For today, anyway.

* * *

And done, bitches! Now into the good stuff, in my eyes, or at least the stuff that was more exciting to write.

I can share the general layout of everything until the Games if you so wish; it's really not that complicated and/or different, but if you're interested, feel free to ask.

And because I forgot to mention this last week - a few friends and myself have started a little baby forum centered around SYOTS! If you're interested in joining or at least checking it out I'd love to see you all there; the link can be found on my profile.

Until next time.


	10. Perfectly Imperfect

VII.

* * *

 **Verity Alameda, 13  
Applicant #3**

* * *

For some reason, or maybe all of the reasons, she had been expecting the place to look quite foreboding.

It didn't, though. Not really. When Renette opened the doors all she saw was white - a lot of it. Floors, walls that were on closer inspection a very faint powder blue that reflected back the lights all over the ceiling directly back at them. If she didn't know where she was, and she still almost doesn't, she'd think it was a hospital.

It doesn't _seem_ like one though. There are a few armchairs placed sporadically around the entrance-way, a few windows with dark shades drawn. It certainly didn't smell like one either; in fact, she could smell _food_. Actual warm, good food that hadn't come out of a bag or plastic package from her backpack. She could only hope it was so, and that someone wasn't playing a vicious prank on her.

She could hear the _clack clack clack_ approaching from far away but missed the entrance of the woman - girl? - in her quest to search out wherever the smell of food was coming from. By the time she chose to focus her attention where everyone else was the person had already entered and was standing in front of them at Renette's side. She wasn't sure where the others had disappeared to.

"Everyone, this is Aelia Akamine. She'll be showing you around the facility briefly tonight. I know you're all tired, so we'll be getting you settled as soon as possible."

It didn't matter who Aelia was, but she was from the Capitol. If the blue hair didn't make it obvious, the way she held herself would. Every single one of them could tell that Renette _wasn't_ , and none of the other instructors either. Aelia looked like someone they had grabbed out of the heart of the Capitol to make them more comfortable in such a familiar place.

Verity wanted to ask how she kept her face so youthful looking, if she injected something into it, but chose not to when Aelia flashed a smile. She couldn't tell what beamed brighter - the unnatural whiteness of her teeth or the minuscule diamonds set into them.

"Alright, guys, let's go!" she announces. "First—"

"Is someone going to bring our bags inside?" someone asks.

"Can I just go to bed?" she hears someone else mutter, and a chorus of laughter starts up.

"Where's the food?" she says aloud, finally, and when Aelia's eyes flash to hers she offers up a smile as well.

She's hungry, alright?

Aelia Akamine must have the patience of a saint. Her smile looks more tense than before, the edges of her teeth catching together. Verity can almost feel the breath she lets out her nose from ten feet away.

"We'll be starting with the mess hall, then," she coaxes, and everyone seems to quiet at that, at the promise of something better than just standing around waiting for a more opportune moment. "This way!"

You don't have to tell her twice.

Aelia keeps talking the further and further they get, and although Verity's sure at least some of it is important she only manages to catch every third word or so, choosing to look around instead. It's not much. The hallway is very long like a highway to nowhere, and she'd think that was so if she couldn't smell food stronger by the second. There's a whole bunch of closed doors, one that's cracked open just enough but too black beyond the threshold to make anything out.

Aelia stops so suddenly Verity nearly walks into her and gestures to the doors. "If you need anything at all, any time of the day, this is where I'll be staying alongside your instructors. Don't hesitate to come to us for help!"

It may just be a guess, but she doesn't think anyone here will be willingly coming for help no matter how desperate things get.

And then Verity really tunes her out, like the words are a thousand miles away. She was almost ready to pipe up again, to ask when they were getting on with it, that no one _cares_ about where people other than them will be sleeping in the dead of night. Mom would tell her not to do that anyway, not to rush people. She just couldn't help it even at the best of times.

"We'll have a much larger spread of food prepared for breakfast tomorrow morning, but for now feel free to grab some snacks and a drink to take back to your rooms."

You really, seriously don't have to tell her twice.

Despite her best efforts a few people still beat her to the table up against the far wall, past all the benches she can only assume they'll be eating breakfast at. Curse these people and their much longer strides, their ability to shove past her as if she's an ant. It's like they have no regard for her existence.

She grabs a muffin off the table and a bottle of apple juice. They're still a little bit warm, oozing chocolate; someone's gone beyond their league to make sure they're actually happy here, and despite her initial impatience she's at least grateful for it.

"Did you just shove one of those in your _pocket_?" Noelani hisses to her right, and she looks over to see Topher fiddling with whatever he most definitely just shoved in his pocket. Hopefully not one of the muffins.

It's not a bad idea, though.

She grabs a granola bar and an extra bottle of juice and dumps them into the pocket of her jacket. She made not need the thing out here, hot as it is, but at least it has some purpose. For now it's going to hold her snacks.

She nudges Topher and gestures to her jacket. He smirks and grabs another muffin, wrapping it in a napkin before tucking it away.

These people really have no idea what they're dealing with just yet.

* * *

 **Jahaira Aurelion, 16  
Applicant #23**

* * *

"Do you think we can sneak back and get more food?" she asks under her breath.

Myra is still munching thoughtfully on a granola bar as Aelia makes them continue on their not-so-merry way. "Probably. Do you remember which way we came from?"

She looks back. Definitely not. She took a picture of the mess hall, unimpressive as it was, but has no clue how to get back there. "Should I?"

Myra snorts and breaks off a chunk of her granola bar, offering it up without a word. She puts her camera back into her bag to shove it into her mouth, scattering bits of granola and yogurt chips everywhere. Someone better be cleaning up every bit of floor they pass through, or they're going to have one large mess on their hands by the time they leave.

She'd rather eat than take pictures, anyway. She took one of the mess hall in a just because sort of mood, of the garish overhead fluorescent slights spilling over the long tables and benches, but other than that hasn't found anything of note to capture. Sure there has to be _something_ around here, it's almost guaranteed, but right now she'd rather take a picture of whatever bed they'll have her sleeping in if that meant she could get close enough to do so.

Of course they can't get that lucky.

The more she zones out though the quicker their little tour goes by, which at least helps. Aelia shows them where the bathrooms are, and the showers. _Fucking kill me_ , someone spits under their breath, all while Myra snickers. Communal showers aren't the worst thing in the world. She's certainly seen uglier things in Plainview.

She shows them some of the classrooms, too, although classroom seems to be a generous term. Everything looks more casual, not as perfectly imperfect as a cool. Definitely not as worn in, either.

"Do you think they built this place just for us?" she asks.

"Probably." Myra shrugs. "No idea why anyone else would need a place in the middle of fucking nowhere like this."

All of this for them. For what, a week's worth of learning and experience? Are they really worth that much?

"Alright, alright, we're almost done, I promise!" Aelia announces. "Just one last thing before I can take you to your rooms."

She ushers them all in front of some double doors and flings the doors open, like she's found the greatest discovery in the world behind them. She takes out her camera again, compelled. It has to be something good.

All of the overhead lights flick on as the doors swing in. She _has_ seen pictures like this. Ones that are eerily similar, like the exact replica is sitting right before her.

"Okay, that's a little creepy," Myra says, and she nods. That doesn't stop her from leaning around Soran in front of her to snap a picture of it. She's sure someone's arm infringes on the frame, or the shadow of a leg, but it doesn't matter. She can edit that out once she gets home.

If Jahaira didn't know any better, she'd say this _was_ the Training Center. They preserved the one in the Capitol, after all. If you have the money you can tour it and all the apartments above. She never did, of course. Most people didn't. But seeing this now almost made her grateful that she hadn't. This had to be the closest thing to an exact replica. There was the gauntlet across the room, ropes and nets strung up along the wall, racks of weapons scattered about in front of tables and benches.

The only thing missing was the balcony above where the Gamemakers would watch over them like some sort of wicked angel.

It didn't seem as dark, either. Myra wasn't wrong - it _was_ creepy in its similarity, but it seemed so much better. There was no taint of death, no fear in anyone's eyes. There were no Avoxes, no trainers waiting for them.

This was something worth capturing.

And she would have several days to do it.

Normally she wouldn't hesitate, but something made her stop now. She could imagine tomorrow, when everything looked more natural. When the crowd was spread out testing out weapons, conversing.

This really could turn the previous horror of the Games into something not so terrible.

"As you can see, this is your mock training facility," Aelia explains. "There will be trainers present at all times, as well as your instructors. You can do as much or as little if you want, if you'd prefer to spend more of your time learning in one of the classrooms. But at the end of your standard three days of "training" you will all be required to participate in a simulation put together by our very own Nyko Ziegler. A little... experience may help you out in that regard."

She's sure it will, but she doesn't care. It's not like getting a good placement will have any effect on what she leaves here with.

She takes one last picture, a basic one of the whole room, and tucks the camera away again. Myra looks at her.

"Do you really think they're going to let you in here with that tomorrow with all of the weapons?"

"Who said I was asking?"

"Now _that_ I can appreciate," Myra says. "If you get caught, don't mention my name. I won't be an accomplice."

She laughs. "I won't. Swear."

She won't. Really. There's only so much trouble they can really get in here, especially for something so trivial.

And besides - it's not like she doesn't have enough experience sneaking a camera around.

* * *

 **Nicator Selton, 17  
Applicant #14**

* * *

"Don't fall asleep," he warns Percy.

They're approaching what has to be their rooms - there's nowhere else to go. Percy spent more time talking on the bus than he did resting and it's starting to show. Not that he minds, really. He's gotten pretty used to how much Percy talks. It doesn't bug him.

Besides, most people tell him he doesn't talk _enough_. They balance each other out.

"I'm _not_ ," Percy insists, though his drooping eyelids and shuffling feet say otherwise. "I am perfectly awake and coherent."

Their bags are all lined up against two walls. He spots his immediately, Percy's alongside it, and the amount of comfort that offers is downright stupid but he can't find the energy to deny it. In an unfamiliar place surrounded by otherwise unfamiliar people it's nice to have someone of note, someone even the slightest bit familiar too.

Even the siblings have gravitated together bit, although are looking in two different directions at two distinctly different bags.

There are only four doors. Something everyone else notices the same time he does.

"As Renette mentioned you'll be separated into groups. Four, to be precise," Aelia informs them. "Your bags are lined up outside of your respective rooms. Besides that, our rules are simple. Curfew is at ten. If you chose to go to sleep at that time that is up to you, although we request that you stay in your rooms after that time unless you need to use the facilities just down the hall."

People are beginning to inch towards their bags. It's clear what they've done here. Grouped by ages and genders as best they can. There won't be any co-ed rooms to be found here.

"Well, go ahead, then," Aelia invites, waving her arms. "Please try not to fight too much."

Easier said than done.

He's nowhere close to the first to the door. Even Percy beats him there and picks up his bag too without a word, an unspoken thanks for the mile Nic did walking down the street with Percy's. He could argue but he gets the sense that Percy's even more pig-headed when he's tired, and would soon throw the thing down the hall so _neither_ of them could carry it before he'd let it go.

Trojan's the one who finally opens the door, stepping inside soundlessly. It doesn't look very big. He didn't think it would be, for some reason. The rest of the place is expansive enough; the place where they lay their heads at night only needs to be big enough to do just that.

"Oh, fucking kill me," Icarus spits. "If I have to sleep in a bunk-bed—"

"I'm thinking it's that or the floor, man," Meliodas points out. Trojan has already climbed the ladder to one, flopping across the top bed next to the door with an arm strewn across his face. Icarus makes a noise - it's dissatisfaction, or something more annoyed, as Soran shoves past him and climbs the ladder across the room, vaulting over the top rail.

"Oh, what squalor we live in now," Percy mutters dramatically, but it brings a smile to his face. "Which one do you want?"

"Doesn't matter. You pick."

Percy doesn't seem like the type to smile easy, but he does around him. It's touching, almost, tainted sour by the look on Icarus' face that's saying he wants death more and more by the second.

Percy climbs up, too. He sits down on the bed underneath and nearly sinks into it. At least it's soft.

Icarus and Meliodas are staring at each other now, a long-leveled look. Mel backs up and drops himself down on the bed underneath Trojan's, who is impressively silent. Either he's gone comatose or is doing an award-worthy job at ignoring everything going on below him.

"Great," Icarus mutters, and then turns to the only empty bed, looking up. "If you throw something at me in the middle of the night—"

"What could I possibly throw at you?" Soran asks, muttered into a pillow. From the sounds of it there isn't this much bickering going on in any of the other rooms. Surely the girls have more maturity than this, and he can't imagine the younger boys are doing much more than shoving each other around, if they're doing it at all. No, this is the dysfunctional room. He can tell.

Percy looks over the top railing. "We might die in here."

He smiles. "You might. I think I'll be okay."

Him and Meliodas, in the very least. He seems equally unruffled. Trojan doesn't seem to care much either way, but Nic likens that to the otherwise unoffensive edge of a match. Simple and straight-forward, until it's struck. Until it needs to be something more. Soran, at least, is obvious in that respect. He'll torment Icarus all he likes, no use in hiding it.

He steels himself into standing up at the edge of the frame, peeking over the top into Percy's bed. He's touching every corner of the bed, shoes still on, nearly rolling off the pillow.

"Don't be surprised if I crawl up here in the middle of the night to escape."

Percy rolls over and looks at him, one eye squashed shut into the blanket. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. So leave some room."

He feels silly. Maybe he should be across the hall with the younger boys; that would fit his mood better. Maybe this isn't the time, but it feels like it is.

"Will do," Percy agrees quietly, rolling over again. Nic still sees the slight flush on his face, creeping down his neck, but he feels much of the same. His face is warm. There's no hiding it; there's a reason it took a few seconds of nerve to force him to stand up in the first place.

He settles back down on his own bed, kicking off his shoes. It's not so bad. Comfortable, even, and he has someone here with him.

They've got a lot to look forward to.

It's really not so bad.

* * *

A bit of a shorter chap, but what can I say, with three POVs. This is arguably the lead-up into the bigger stuff anyway, so I figured we'd spend a bit less time here.

Next up: training. Kind of sort of.

Until next time.


	11. Your Call Has Been Forwarded

VIII.

* * *

 **Meris Loucare, 17**  
 **Applicant #15**

* * *

All in all, she gets a better night sleep than she anticipated.

They could hear bickering through the walls for about an hour after they had closed the door, apparently paper thin and certainly not up to code. For the most part they had sat around and listened. They had all been laughing along with it at one point or another.

The long day had won over, eventually. The second all of them had laid down she hadn't heard a single peep.

No one's come to get them when she wakes up, bleary and disoriented, blinking heavily at the unfamiliar walls and the railings above her head. Railings, right. Bunk-bed. She had been preparing herself to climb up there but Jupiter had seemed content to do so, all with a smile on their face. It hadn't been the most graceful landing she had ever seen, not with the way the frame shook when they flopped down, but it had settled. And Jupiter had look quite pleased with themselves.

There was no way to make it easier for them to climb up there, not that she could think of. She would keep thinking on it.

She blinks up at the railings a few more times before she realizes the door is cracked open and someone is slipping through the open gap. Someone much taller and broader than anyone sleeping in this room, and all the beds are filled anyway.

Why would one of the Instructors be creeping in here like this?

She sits up and nearly bashes her head into the railing, holding up a hand to stop her forward progress. The figure slips in and closes the door shut behind them with hardly a click. The room plunges back into darkness, but her eyes are well-adjusted enough already.

Meliodas turns around and slaps his hand over his mouth, cutting off the yelp. "Why the fuck are you just sitting there like that staring at me?"

"Why the fuck are you _in here_?" she asks.

Instead of answering he makes his way closer, fumbling around slowly in the dark until his hand closes around the edge of the bed frame. He edges down on the floor to the right of her bed carefully, waving his arms like a blind fool until he's certain there's nothing in his path.

"What are you doing?" she repeats.

"Trojan snores like a dragon," he says, by way of answering. "Percy's been up for like, two fucking hours and he woke Icarus up and now the two of them are arguing and I don't know whether Soran's encouraging it or participating in it—"

"Both," she guesses. "What's Nicator doing?"

"Both," he agrees. "Nic was in Percy's bed when _I_ woke up, so he's probably not on the path of doing anything useful."

"So you're sleeping in here?" she asks.

He's finished spreading himself out on the floor, draping the lone blanket he tugged across the hallway with him. "Do you mind?"

"Well, you're kind of already laying there."

"True," he says. "But you could kick me out."

True. She could. She also doesn't think she cares enough to do so. She can't see much of him, certainly not his eyes, but he sounds tired enough. They're probably going to get their wake-up call soon anyway. Best to let him sleep for a few minutes. If anyone has a problem with it, then they'll just need to get over it. That, or change the way the sleeping arrangements are, if they want it to get any better.

"Just go to sleep," she sighs. At least someone can. She's probably awake for good now, a by-product of the bustling house she lives in now. Once she's up, she's up for good. Usually she's put on Tekla duty while everyone else gets ready for the day.

It feels weird, not to be responsible for anything or anyone.

Besides Meliodas, apparently.

"You wouldn't happen to have an extra pillow, would you?" he murmurs a minute later, and she tugs her only, very important pillow out from under her head and drops it on him. Like she said, she's not going back to sleep. Clearly he needs it more than she does.

She readjusts and rolls over onto her stomach, resting her head on her folded arms. Lyan always used to steal her pillow when they were younger. Something about how the older sibling should get the most comfortable things to sleep with. If anything she's more used to this than most of the things going on here. That and the volume of people spread around - those are consistencies.

"The floor's really uncomfortable," Mel whispers.

"I'm not Percy," she informs him. "I'm not inviting you to sleep in my bed."

"But you're not sleeping!"

" _No_ ," she hisses. He rolls over to look at her, only slightly more clear now. Now that the edges of him aren't so fuzzy she can't imagine why she was worried about someone walking in here. He's nothing to be frightened by.

He stares, for a moment. She buries her head back in her arms and resolves herself to ignoring him until someone tells her otherwise. She doesn't hear him lay back down - doesn't hear him do much of anything, really. Whether or not he hears the approaching footsteps, she's not sure, but she braces herself all the same as they get closer and closer to the door.

 _Clack clack clack_. It's happening.

The door opens. All the lights are flicked on at once, and she flinches back into the darkness of her arms. Mel groans as Aelia pops her head in the door.

"Rise and shine!" she asks, pausing. "Do you have an explanation for why you're in here?"

"Nope," he concedes. "I definitely wasn't sleeping."

No. He definitely wasn't.

* * *

 **Gideon Mallory, 16  
Applicant #20**

* * *

He wasn't expecting much.

Breakfast wasn't a lackluster affair but it wasn't anything to write home about, either. Not that he would even if it had been. He busies himself with getting an even spread across the bagel he chose and sips his juice without looking up.

If he had it his way, he wouldn't have been sleeping in that room at all. Jay had a lot of gall talking about sleeping with _babies_ when he was in a room with two people older than him, though Sabre clearly wouldn't say it and Mal, frankly, didn't have the energy.

He still doesn't. Jay's annoying anyway, try as he may not to be. Maybe no one else shares those sentiments, but that doesn't matter.

Renette rounds them all up after breakfast and together the instructors herd them off towards the training room from last night. He wouldn't even remember Nyko's name if Damas didn't pick back up walking with him again. He definitely can't remember the other two. At least Aelia is easy enough - she finds a home in his brain where there's almost none for anyone else. Maybe it's the hair.

"Gideon?"

"Mal." It slips out of his mouth like it's an automated reply, like he's recording a message for a missed call.

"Oh," Jupiter says, and stifles an awkward laugh. "I thought you were joking about that, yesterday. Sorry."

He makes the conscious flip to the other side, the side of not quite being such an asshole without it being warranted. "I wasn't."

"Got it," they respond. "Do you mind if I walk with you?"

"Well, you already are."

They smile. "It usually works. Most people feel too bad to tell me to go away."

Their level in his brain ratchets up a little, inches closer to a level of respect that friendship demands. Connie's the only one that stays by his side, and sometimes he suspects even she only does because she'll be stuck if she needs a push. He knows it's not true. He knows it.

Sometimes it just feels that way. Making friends in Seven for him is virtually non-existent.

"Okay, I'll bite," he says. No point in beating around the bush. "What's with the legs?"

"Cancer," they respond. Another automated reply. "They had to amputate them both when I was fourteen."

"And the arm?"

"Birth defect. You know, the works."

Up ahead Emmi turns around and eyeballs them. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why. Someone nudges her back ahead, and although he can see the words in her eyes she turns around, stopping along with everyone else. Renette is side by side with another man, an unfamiliar one. Where everyone else looks at least halfway, vaguely professional he almost looks like the company leader. Certainly not someone befitting the entrance of a training facility.

"Ridge Oleary will be your de facto Head Trainer for the next three days. While in this room you report to him and any rules he sees fit. Much like the _traditional_ regimen you are welcome to explore and learn as you please - or not. You will be supervised at all times."

They're not going to learn anything important in the hours they're supervised, that he knows. All the real ground-breaking stuff is going to happen once the eyes go away.

"He looks sort of intimidating," Jupiter says.

"Not intimidating. Just doesn't look like a fan of Capitol _scum_."

They frown. "Wrong person to get working here, then."

Or the exact right one. Aelia is here for them, and it doesn't appear the instructors have any issues with them, but Ridge is someone to keep them in line. There are a few other non-descript trainers spread out around the room, but none as intimidating as him. None that supposedly make the rules they must answer to.

Mal can only hope he lets them eat lunch. If he ever lets them out at all.

Ridge's voice isn't the thunderous boom you would expect it to be, but rather a low monotone. Now that, of all things, is an automated reply. "Freedom of choice is a privilege here, not a right. If anyone acts out of line your punishment will be determined by me."

" _Punishment_?" Jupiter whispers.

"Oh, ignore him," he mutters. "Scare tactics, that's all that is. He can't actually do anything to us."

They still look nervous, though. Mal hasn't been scared of something for years, not since his parents forced him into Seven in the first place.

"Hey," he says, quieter. "Of all the people to punish, they're not going to go after the person with cancer, remember?"

"Well, you never know," they say. "I don't have it _anymore_."

He didn't think so. Their hair is starting to grow in just enough, and he doubts they'd have let someone that sick in here in the first place. Jupiter may know how to keep up with someone after years of practice, but this is all unfamiliar territory. It's worse for them than it is for him. At least he knows how to handle people. At least he still has all four limbs intact.

Renette departs. Someone closes the door behind him, and there finally is the thunder.

They can leave anytime they want, he reminds himself. Damn whatever Ridge Oleary says.

"So," he says. "What do you want to do first?"

Jupiter looks up at him. "You want me to stay with you?"

There's surprise coloring their tone. He feels it in himself, too.

"Well, you're already here," he says, and shrugs it off. "Might as well stay."

They beam, though, as bright as Connie did when he first helped her plant tulip bulbs deep underground in the autumn, and something about that feels right. They came to him. Despite all their outward fear in every other area they weren't worried about him at all.

And that means something.

It has to.

* * *

 **Arwen Paoul, 18  
Applicant #1**

* * *

She doesn't feel surprised when Emmi follows her.

No, almost satisfied. Like a cat that just got the cream.

That is horrendously appropriate, in shortest terms, for referring to the beginning of a possible relationship. If anything it's very her, though. That's how she refers to most things that turn out better than expected.

It's not that she expected things to go badly, here. Just not so dramatically quick. She was a fan of the dramatically quick, after all. That was always the ideal. But in a single complex with twenty-three other strangers, a few days isn't enough. Not when you very well may never see each other ever again.

Emmi likes her. She likes Emmi. It's very simple, in an overwhelming sort of way.

She can see in Emmi what she knows no one sees in herself. A fabrication. A children's craft level mishmash of personality and clothing and face that changes you into something you once weren't.

No one sees it in her because no one asks. Everyone sees it in Emmi because of the missing arm.

A missing arm doesn't suddenly make you lesser. It doesn't suddenly make you _more_ either, but somehow Emmi has managed to pull it off. An impressive feat, for someone with vaguely cotton candy hair.

Last night she let Emmi choose her bed first, although she still got the one she wanted regardless. A dose of pointing out all the non-existent faults in the one she secretly wanted had done the trick. This morning Emmi follows her.

It's the most natural push and pull she's ever felt. Like the ebbing of the tide.

"I know I don't really _know-know_ you, but somehow you going immediately for the weapons isn't all that surprising," Emmi comments, and she smirks as she selects a spear off the whole rack of them. One of the trainers is eyeing her, looking her up and down, no doubt wondering what some lovely, dainty little Capitol girl wants with a weapon, so much like Marquis. They're all worthless.

"At least I went for something you can use one-handed," she points out.

"Is that supposed to give you bonus points?" Emmi asks, although there's a teasing glint in her eyes. She picks up a spear too, one that's smaller and lighter, and gives it a few experimental turns.

"Why, did it?"

"I'll consider it."

Here's the thing, too. She's wondering at this point if it's Emmi or nothing. Emmi wouldn't be her last choice anyway, far from it, but it doesn't appear that anyone else is as interested in sticking around, at least not from their room. Myra and Jahaira are off probably trying to figure out how to publish their combined best-seller from the middle of nowhere. Jupiter is off with Gideon, something she hasn't quite wrapped her brain around just yet. It looks like a match made in hell - maybe it's not.

She's not sure if Meris is actively trying to distance herself from them or if that's just how the day has begun. She certainly hasn't made any efforts to get on with them.

Emmi taps her on the arm with the spear. It's blunted, the edges dulled down, but she still feels the cold tap of the metal tip against her skin.

"What's in like living in a DEZ?"

"What's it like living in Eight? Horrendously drab?"

"Not as much as you'd think," she answers, tapping away Arwen's spear when she attempts to poke her back. "I think they're starting to pick up some of the old Capitol fashion now that they're doing so much manufacturing."

"So I'm sure you blend right in."

"I'm surprised you can even see me."

She finds herself smiling and nearly wipes it away. She lets it rest there. Like she said, it's Emmi or a new direction, and she's not sure she feels so inclined to do that just yet. She won't stand being alone. Not here.

"Alright, let's go, then," Emmi encourages. "You really think you can beat me?"

"More like know," she answers. The trainer standing by is looking increasingly more horrified by the second. Maybe they should have given them foam weapons to play with instead of real ones. She knows, despite herself, that she would never truly hit her. She doesn't think Emmi deserves that, not when she's been the only one around from the beginning. On the bus, here...

It's all she's got going for her. She almost expected everyone to flock around her. That's what happens normally. She stands up and draws attention with a wave of her arm and everyone just... comes running. That's how it is.

She should have known a bunch of Capitolites wouldn't behave the same.

It's exactly how she behaves so differently from everyone back home.

"You good?" Emmi asks. Neither of them have moved. Hell, Emmi could have ran her through right here with everyone watching and she wouldn't have even noticed.

She almost says no. She almost says _I don't know, is that weird_? She doesn't. The truth would hurt like swallowing a shard of glass.

It's been so long since she's been around people like this. Her kind.

It's almost enough to remind her that the outside of her isn't the only one that exists.

"Great," she answers, and gives her a toothy smile. Once again she goes from feeling less like a girl and more to a shark circling a bleeding carcass. "Now, are we getting on with this, or what?"

* * *

 **Sabre Hennedige, 15  
Applicant #6**

* * *

He's almost the last one to move.

He's not, which he knows, but it's the thought of being the last one standing there like a gawking, useless idiot that finally makes his feet move across the room. Not towards any weapons. He doesn't think he'll be good with those.

Mom said to get back out there. Dad said it the same, with lesser words and more encouraging, very fatherly pats on the back. He was still very fatherly for a man who's only child is (was) a dancer.

At first he's not even sure where it is that he ends up, a table with two benches and not much else on it except for a few stacks of books and diagrams, pictures of colorful, thorny greenery peeking out from the edges. Plants. Those are simple enough, or at least they should be. He doesn't know anyone in Two who's into botany. That should be reserved for the outer Districts, for the towns lying on their edges. For the people of Eleven who really need it.

He flips over one of the pages before he sits down. _Atrichoseris - gravel ghost._ Hardly any green to be seen, just thin, weedy looking spikes up and up and up, ending in simple little white flowers. Simple enough. Pretty enough, if you like weeds. He can appreciate something able to grow and survive without hardly any sustenance underneath it.

He takes a seat and pulls the book closer. Plants are good. Easy. It's something to focus on and learn about, and no one else is here. Perhaps it could teach him a thing or two, put him down a new path. He's not sure what use there is for plant-based knowledge in Two now that the Academy is gone. Anyone who retained such information has probably forgotten it by now.

He nearly gets back up, the practical versus the unpractical tipping the scales in his brain.

What real use was their for dancers in Two, either?

He doesn't get up because someone sits down next to him with a not-so-commanding thud. It would be hard. She's not very big, and thin to boot. If his presence is bothering her or making her think otherwise about her seating choice he can't tell. He might just be more bothered than she is. He didn't think anyone else would come this way so early, not when their were other things to do.

"Hey," she says, and smiles cheerfully. She reaches for his book and pulls it a hair closer to herself, rotating it. "What'cha doing?"

Well, he doesn't know anymore, but he thinks he's about to leave.

"Plants," he says stupidly and not so eloquently. She doesn't appear to notice.

"I love plants," she says instead. "There's all sorts of cool ones where I live. I try to keep track of them all when I go hiking but it's sorta hard, you know? There's a lot to look at. My dad bought me a book on bird-watching but I haven't really gotten into that yet. I'm trying, though."

He nods. He's not sure what else to do. There's no way he could have anticipated that much coming out of her mouth by way of an introduction.

"Anyway, I'm Caiman."

He stares. "Like the—"

"Yes, like that," she sighs. "And Sabre, like the sword. How would you feel if everyone asked you that?"

Perfectly normal, really. He does live in Two, after all. He hears it more than Caiman probably knows.

She's not giving him his book back. Should he chose another? Should he still be contemplating a getaway?

He doesn't. He hooks his feet round one of the supports on the benches instead, to anchor himself there. It'll be harder to run that away. Caiman flips through a few pages of his book, humming to herself. She doesn't seem that bad. Slightly intrepid in a very in your face sort of way, but he doesn't remember seeing much of her or her talking on the bus. Maybe she's just looking for a friend.

He wants to tell her that she would've done well to look elsewhere, but can't bring himself to.

"Anyway, you like plants?" she asks. "Or just curious?"

He shrugs. "I don't really know much about them. Just trying to figure it out."

"Aren't we all," she says under her breath. He doesn't say anything, but he can't exactly look away either. She flips through a few pages of the book again and back, hand twitching. Eventually she closes it and slides it back to him, letting out a breath through her teeth.

"You look pretty well put together," she says. "Snappy dresser. Level-headed. You chose this station really quickly. Must be nice."

"Yeah," he lies. If only she knew.

"I don't even know why I'm saying this," she says. "I don't even know you, I shouldn't—"

She really shouldn't.

"Some days I don't really feel like myself, you know?" she asks. "Some days I look in the mirror like _you go, girl!_ and other days I can't even bring myself to say it because I don't feel that way. But I do. And then I don't."

It says a lot about the whole magnitude of issues he saw going on while he was dancing. He saw them all. A lot of people would misinterpret that, but not him. He looked at the way everyone was dressed on the bus, the way everyone's eyes lifted up.

Caiman is dressed differently today. More unsure.

"Like..." he says slowly, testing the words out. "Like Jupiter, you think?"

She swallows. He doesn't know if he should be calling her that, or something else. Whatever she wants him to call her, if she would tell him.

"Maybe," she surmises. "Maybe, yeah."

"Maybe," he says as well. "Maybe you should talk to them, then."

It's not exactly hurt in her eyes. She nods stiffly and gets up, shoving her hands back into her sleeves, and walks off without so much as a word. Not towards Jupiter, who's on the other side of the room. Towards another empty table, yet to be occupied. Yet to be deemed important.

He feels like a hypocrite, or maybe he is one. A lot of nerve he has, telling someone to talk about their identity issues when he won't do that himself. When he doesn't have a single ounce of it figured out. He knows how tough it is on your own, when there's no one around to hear or understand you. That's what he's been living. That's who came to him just now to figure it out.

He hopes for Caiman's sake that she can.

He hopes that it's possible for someone.

* * *

I realized like five minutes ago that I didn't have an author's note and I still have no idea what to say so this is just space filler, really.

Let me know what you thought! Give me sustenance.

Until next time.


	12. Firestorm

VIIII.

* * *

 **Meliodas Vergara, 18  
Applicant #18**

* * *

They're never going to have a normal meal here.

Dinner last night went... better than he had expected. Sneaking across the hall after curfew went splendidly, if you ignored how sore his back was from it digging into the floor all night. It hadn't helped that everyone had still been up when he had finally arrived; Myra was laughing up a storm at his misfortune, and so was Emmi.

It was better, still, than not sleeping at all.

Half of them wind up taking their second day's breakfast into the training center, him among them. There's just too much food to get through and not enough time to do it. No one wants to sit around for that long anyway, not when there's the opportunity to be let loose instead of being watched hawk-eyed by whoever cooked their morning meal.

The trainers don't even seem to care that much provided no one's getting a weapon pointed at them without warning.

And with them, as much as he loathes to admit it, there's probably a more likely chance of that happening than anyone will want to admit.

There's a lot of problems in the midst of them. Soran and Icarus and Trojan, who gives them a look through half-lidded eyes and walks off by himself. Nicator trying to keep half an eye on Percy at all times less something happen. One of the girls inevitably inserting themselves into the middle of it - this time it's Arwen, who looks around with one eyebrow elegantly raised before she saunters off.

Even Jay is lingering around, though he doesn't look particularly confrontational, and Gideon isn't far off as well.

"So, what are we arguing about today?" Faye asks. He blinks and misses her in the thick of things. Sometimes he forgets that there are people here half his size. It's easy to.

"Really?" Meris mutters, coming up to his side. She's not hard to notice.

Not to him.

"Apparently," he responds, and settles back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. No use in actually going off and doing something until he's certain no one's going to start anything. He almost expects Meris to walk away. That's what Jay does, after a long moment, before he meanders his way off to the weights. Mel doesn't want to imagine how that's going to go.

"Do you have a suggestion?" Percy asks.

"Maybe something... slightly intelligent? Something worth arguing about."

"I'm sorry, who are you again?" Icarus asks, and Mel scrubs a hand over his eyes, sighing. He's used to it already, is the stupid thing. Their quips and their arguments and their petty, dumb bullshit. It's about all you can expect from a group of teenagers, regardless of their gender or age or social status. You shove them all in a room together, it might as well be a school day.

"Do you wanna go?" Meris asks.

"In just a minute."

"You don't have to babysit them, you know."

He knows. He definitely knows. But for some stupid reason he feels obligated. If someone gets hit because he went wandering off, he'll feel responsible. He doesn't want anyone getting hit for no good reason.

It doesn't even really _sound_ like they're arguing, either. Just their voices getting louder and louder like it's a competition of who can exhaust their vocal cords first. Right now it appears like Percy's winning, and even the trainers are starting to press their fingers against their ears, avoiding the possible confrontation and the noise altogether.

No one else is even close except for the girl sitting at the table five feet away, fiddling with something mechanical. She's hunched over herself, fingers moving too quickly for him to really make sense of what she's doing. She turns around at their commotion, and although she doesn't quite flinch at their voices raising incrementally her whole body goes stiff, shying away from it. It's hard to notice in such a baggy sweater.

"Sorry," he apologizes, because no one else is going to. She turns to him, instead. "You might want to... move until they're done. Might not be for a while. Just take it from me."

She nods, but that doesn't cancel her staring out any faster than before. She watches them like the cogs behind her eyes are turning. Someone's voice raises again - it's not Percy, this time, and she swings her legs over the bench and skitters away like a little blue-haired bug.

"Everyone here is so weird," Meris decides.

"I'm not," he protests, and she hums. He doesn't know whether that's agreement or a taunt. "I don't think you are, either."

"I'm appropriately touched."

"You're welcome. Why are you here?"

"In an attempt to convince you that you do not have to watch this pack of idiots like a mother hen at all times."

"No, I meant here in general. Why did you apply?"

She shrugs. Her shoulders nearly touch her ears. "To get the hell out of dodge. What about you?"

He doesn't feel like that's the whole of it, but can't bring himself to push the issue. He doesn't think pushing with someone like her is going to get him anywhere; there's a reason she's so adamantly kept him not only out of his bed, but away from it too. Everyone else in that room, if not obvious, seems like a ten piece puzzle. Easy enough to put together after a moment of studying.

She seems like a thousand, at least.

"I'm just trying to understand," he decides on, and she nods. He hopes that it's agreement that causes her to do it.

"How's that working out for you?" she asks, and when she looks up at him the corner of her mouth is pulling up. The beginning of a smirk.

He holds out his arm for her to lead him away. Acceptance. "Not well. But I'd like to change that."

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16  
Applicant #17**

* * *

Her parents never argue.

She's not sure what their deal is, really. She's sure most normal couples argue. But not them. It's the reason why an argument is so foreign, why she sees the slightest bit of something stressful and clams up. That, and she never has to deal with it anywhere else, either. She's never involved in fights at school, no matter the taunting she's on the receiving end of. It just doesn't happen.

She knew Faye was a lot to deal with, sharing a room with her has proved that much, but she didn't think of it to the extent that the other girl would provoke and cause fights with many of the older people here.

Such a small, outwardly unintimidating person should not have such a genuinely intimidating mouth.

It's not a hard decision to eventually to skitter away from the immediate vicinity of whatever's going to inevitably happen over there before Ridge or someone else intervenes. She shoves her hands in her pockets, keeps her head down. She's not sure what to do now, or where to go. Sticking to the mechanical things seemed like the most comfortable thing to work at.

Her parents thought she would be working on getting more friends, surely. Not avoiding most, if not all people the same way she did back home, walking to and from places without so much of a word.

Maybe traps wouldn't be a bad idea. There's someone over there too, but his head is held down the same way she's been keeping hers.

There's not much else she _can_ do, unless she wants to go back to the previous station and risk being caught in the middle of an inevitable firestorm.

In true Ria fashion she keeps her head down so well that she full-on walks into the bench just behind the poor guy and knocks into his back, nearly sending him into the table. He catches himself easy enough and holds out a hand. Ready to catch her if she stumbles, or warding her off? She can't tell.

She can never tell.

"Sorry," she manages. "Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"It's okay," he answers, the words crawling and forcing his way out of his throat the same way hers did. She presses her hands together through her pockets, willing something else to happen. Should she still sit down?

He slowly, painfully, turns back to his little project. She takes a deep breath and rounds the table, sitting down at the very end of the bench. Far away. Hopefully far enough that she can't do anymore damage.

"Need any help?" the trainer asks, hovering over her. Luckily they're not all that imposing, not very big. Young enough that she's not worried, voice low and even.

"Not for now," she says. Not ever, probably, but she knows better than to be inconsiderate to someone that's just trying to offer some help. That's why she listened to Meliodas when she did. He was only trying to help.

The trainer rounds back over to the guy. Sabre, she thinks. He was with Caiman briefly yesterday, and now she understands why it was so brief. Caiman can be a lot, at random moments. Not nearly as bad as Faye - at least she's on the happier, non-confrontational side of things. But Sabre seems on the quieter side just like her. Neurotic, if she had to bet. Again, the same way she is.

He seems to be needing more help than she does, and even though the trainer seems nice enough it doesn't appear that he's taking any sort of direction.

The same qualities in different bodies.

Ria scoots down the bench before she can tell herself not to, so she's directly across from him. She busies herself with pulling some supplies over. Pieces of a snare, a coil of rope, and instruction manual that she probably won't look at. She can feel him staring at her from the other bench, studying her. To be fair, she was doing the same thing to him just a minute ago.

So she lets him look while she starts tying a knot in the end of the rope. It's a simple enough trap. Just enough to catch someone's ankle and hold them taught, even if it didn't cut into their skin.

It seems a little morbid, but she thinks all of this is. She can hear someone shooting arrows into a target behind them, _thunk, thunk_ , and the clash of two swords or a spear, the sounds of running feet on the gauntlet. They're walking in the same footsteps those kids did, nine years ago and beyond it. For all they know, they might as well be those kids. Clueless and trying to figure out their life, if they have one left to live.

"Is that how it's supposed to be?" Sabre asks finally, under his breath. She didn't think she was supposed to hear but finally risks a glance up. He's looking from the beginning of her trap to the half-finished design of his. There's a few obvious differences, but they're all too small. Not enough for someone not practiced in building or mechanics to notice.

He's definitely not a mechanic.

She reaches across the table and nudges one of the lopes of rope away from the mouth of the snare, winding it around the left side.

"If you keep it in the middle it won't work," she explains. "It'll just get caught. If you keep it there it'll be easier to work with."

"Right," he says, nodding furiously. "Right, got it."

She pulls herself back to her own side, starting on the other end of the rope.

"Thanks," he says, a minute later. He's not looking at her.

He doesn't see her smile when she nods, no matter how faint it is.

* * *

 **Faye Ackerman, 12  
Applicant #7**

* * *

She hasn't actually picked up a weapon in these two days.

Some would argue there's fun in fighting. She agrees.

Just not in the way that most people would.

For the first time she picks up a throwing axe nearly the length of her forearm. It's really not as heavy as she thought it would be. Maybe things are just heavier when you're incapable of believing you can use them. If someone else her age picked it up, maybe they wouldn't feel so blindly confident.

Often times Esma says that will be her downfall - how completely and undeniable confident she is in herself and her abilities.

But what's the point, if you're not?

The boys are still arguing within earshot, although now they've taken to shooting arrows at targets. She can't tell if it's some sort of contest or not, if they're seeing who can try to hit the bulls-eye first. Percy won't have the arm strength. Icarus might, with some practice. Soran's already hitting the edge of the target.

Much like her, Nicator is watching on as well, though he has no weapon in hand. Of all the things going on, somehow that's the least surprising.

What isn't surprising, however, is Ridge lurking beyond them, occasionally handing out pointers. She can figure out this much - Percy is at least half attempting to take the advice he's being given, shifting his stance and adjusting his arms. Icarus looks like everything being spoken is floating in one ear and out the other, as if the words are beyond his immortal status.

Soran doesn't even look like he's listening to begin with.

Not that she is, either.

She makes her way to the far edge of them; no way is she getting caught up in the middle of whoever's bad aim first strikes. The arrows are deadly sharp, flashing silver in the overhead lights.

Another arrow thunks into the target, in one of the middle rings. Must be Soran's, then.

"You may want to choose a smaller one," Ridge suggests, approaching from her left shoulder. She blinks, first at him and then down at the axe in her hand.

"Why?"

"It's too large a weapon for someone your size. Someone larger in stature, with more arm strength, may be able to heft it properly enough to throw it with some experience and practice. But you won't."

She stands a little taller and takes a deep breath. A very, _very_ deep breath. "I think I can do it."

"You're welcome to try, sweetheart. It was just a suggestion."

She almost snaps, something along the lines of _don't call me sweetheart, Mr. Know-It-All_ , but she knows it's genuine advice. It's just wrong, is all. It can't be anything but. The implication that she's not strong enough or not intelligent enough to figure it out is more insulting than anything she's heard in the last month.

She looks towards the target, instead, and ignores Ridge hovering over her shoulder. The target is approximately forty feet away, five feet off the ground. An easy enough distance for someone experienced in using a bow. An axe is a little trickier. She can't begin to estimate how many rotations it will take for the damn thing to get there. She'll have to throw it high for it to make it - higher than she is tall.

She hefts the axe back with one hand. Her foot lifts a little as she brings it forward and lets it go, sailing over her head.

It makes it maybe twenty feet before it clatters to the round, metal scraping over concrete. She winces at the sound.

Nearly in unison, both Soran and Icarus smirk against the line of their respective bowstrings. Percy frowns as yet another one of his arrows hits the ground. At least it went further than her axe, which he pauses to take in.

"Finally, someone who's more terrible than me," he says flatly. There's no amusement in his voice but she huffs regardless.

Two others are staring as well. Damas, who looks away the second she looks at him, and Verity, who looks nothing short of amused. She scowls and the other girl pokes her tongue out before turning around and skipping away, closer to the station that Sabre and Isperia are now occupying. All ridiculous, the whole lot of them. They're being _ridiculous._

Like children.

"Words of advice, if you'll take them now," Ridge says. "Try two handed instead of one to get started. It's a more basic technique. You can heft it over your head. You'll get more power behind the throw that way."

She does not need a more _basic_ technique. She just needs time to practice this one. You never saw a Career in the Games throwing an axe two handed, after all. They could send it sailing with just one, right into someone's heart.

She's not under any delusions she'll ever be on the same level as a Career, but she's not going to accept much less. There's still a few hours left in the day for her to get better at it. That should be all the time she needs.

Faye stalks out over the line and towards her fallen axe. Someone practically _screeches_ behind her, the sound echoing off the walls and bouncing back a second before the arrow goes whizzing by, three feet in front of her. She takes a huge, awkward stumbling step back, nearly back across the line. Ridge catches her by the elbow and pulls her back the last few feet, into safety.

"Another word of advice," he says, voice more firm. His fingers are vice tight around her skin. "Wait until people stop shooting to walk."

She won't take much advice. Hardly any of it.

But that she'll remember.

* * *

 **Tarquin Vierra, 16  
Applicant #4**

* * *

"God, what a mess," Topher says. "I'm gonna go over there."

He takes two steps - two very excited steps, may he add, before Noelani grabs the collar of his shirt and drags him back like a disgruntled puppy.

"Your Mom will kill me if you come back home with an arrow in you."

"Oh, pfft," he responds. "As if. I'm too fast. They'd never hit me. It'd be like trying to hit a squirrel."

He huffs out a laugh. Noelani looks exasperated for a moment before she turns to him and smiles, and just like that the moment is over. Topher pulls away from her grip but stays resolutely in one spot, watching on as the mess happening over at the archery situation slowly dissolves.

It's maybe not as much of a mess as Topher believed it to be. A little bit of arguing here and there between teenagers can't even be considered a mess when it's happening every other second. He spends enough time backstage to know that. You round up a group of people with contrastingly loud personality in one places, you're asking for it.

The difference between this and a theater troupe is that at least in the troupe you spend enough time around each other that you're forced to get to know everyone around you. No one here feels obligated to do that outside of the few friends they've chosen from the masses.

He feels like he knows Noelani well enough. Topher too. Jay, because he sleeps over top of Tarquin's bed and because he seems to always be lurking around them anyway. Gideon hasn't talked to him much, and neither has Sabre, but Damas has at least been able to force a few words out when he's spoken to him. It seems like progress, when not much else is happening.

Besides, it seems like Noelani is the one that picked him up, not the other way around. He had been thinking about it anyway. They seemed like they fit.

It had been the two of them until Topher and Kidava had started snipping at each other across the table at breakfast yesterday morning, and now they had her little brother alongside when he wasn't off talking to someone else, which seemed common enough anyway. He was fine, besides that. A little sensitive at certain things, almost too much, but who was he to talk when he cried nearly every time his own character died in a play, even if he knew it was coming?

"I just want dinner," Topher says. "Do you think they'll let us out soon?"

Noelani shrugs, not paying all that much attention. She seems to do that a lot. When Topher's just asking a basic question, wondering aloud, it almost seems like she doesn't hear it at all.

"Probably," he answers.

"Alright. I think I'm gonna go try the gauntlet again, then. See you at dinner."

It's not until he's ten feet gone that Noelani notices him peeling away, looking up at his retreating form. "Be careful!"

He waves behind him, still zipping off. He nearly crashes into the traps table, and Sabre and Ria both look up as he goes by, moving along towards the gauntlet.

"Have you talked to Ria since the bus?" he asks, nudging her in the back when she doesn't look up from the camouflage paints she's messing with. "Noelani."

"Sorta," she huffs, smearing a streak of it up her arm. "She never really wants to talk to me. Or anyone. But I've been trying."

Well, she's talking to Sabre right now. _Sorta_. More like they're doing their own thing and occasionally she'll reach out and point something out, waiting until he murmurs something back to focus their individual attention back on their own projects.

He can't even say he really knows anyone like the two of them. Ria especially. At least Sabre seems driven enough in his own projects. Ria just seems to flit around to places escaping the chaos, choosing her paths to avoid the worst of it. He wishes he even had the forethought.

Everyone he knows is loud, playful, a booming voice in a backstage area, exaggerating their laughs as they rehearse in a mirror, twisting their faces to better replicate the character.

"We should go over and talk to them. Or just sit with them."

He feels bad, for no reason at all. Their introversion is not his problem.

It feels like it is, though.

"Sure," Noelani agrees. "Can you wait until I'm done, though? I want to finish this."

He's not even sure what she's trying to accomplish, at this point. The paint up her arms looks more like a sunset than anything else. Useful for if she's trying to blend into the sky and nothing else.

He should just go over there right now. Noelani will follow eventually. One person introducing themselves into their little world will work better than two, anyway. It'll be a better ice-breaker. He's the one that first got Ria's name, after all, and the one that distracted Jahaira long enough on the bus by waving his arms around, ruining her picture, to get her off Sabre's back.

He scuffs his feet and stays where he is. He should go. He probably will. Maybe.

A decision will come to him eventually, he's sure.

They always do, no matter how long it takes.

* * *

Let me know what you thought of this one, y'all. I'd appreciate it.

On another note, my friendo Sukkar has started an SYOT - a sequel to their first, and is looking for submissions. It's called _Pro Patria Mori_ and it's tucked away in my favorites if you'd like to submit or take a look.

Until next time.


	13. Like The Dead

X.

* * *

 **Trojan Geomantra, 18**  
 **Applicant #22**

* * *

Vector always said he slept like the dead.

It's a good thing, too. He knows there's a reason Meliodas has been gone every morning, and the third day is no exception. He wakes up and Percy is always already fully-dressed and pestering Icarus about something or other. Soran looks like he's dressed but you can never tell, still safely hidden in his bed, flattening a pillow over his ears.

Nicator looks on. Looks at him and smiles too, but not the way he smiles at anyone else. This smile is nervous, unfamiliar. Like he's dipping his toes in not knowing if there's sharks.

He doesn't move an inch.

There's something to be said about how easy it is to make these people uncomfortable. Hell, no one's even spent much time talking to him. It's a good thing that's not what he was here for like the rest of these delusional idiots; walking around and conversing with each other like a free period at school, doing nothing at all of importance. If they're not going to pick up a weapon, the least they could do is _learn._

He's gotten pretty good with arrows. Him and Soran are about at the same pace, hitting the bullseye every other time by the end of the day yesterday. A little bit of patience, a lot of time, and bam. You've hit home.

Percy still won't shut the hell up, although he's not surprised. Icarus looks out from over his pillow as Trojan gets to his feet, rifling through his bag for another set of clothes. At least they don't make them wear a training uniform.

"Where are you going?"

"Mess hall," he answers, with no real plans to go there. "You got a problem with that, Your Highness?"

Icarus gives him the finger. At least his voice isn't as grating as Percy's is, no matter how many minutes he complains about the state of their lumpy mattresses every night. That coupled with the fact that he never shuts his fucking hole for more than five seconds and you'd think someone would've killed him long before he ever got here, Hunger Games or not. It's a miracle Nicator can even put up with him; a miracle, or he's just too nice to tell him to fuck off.

He doesn't wait for any of them. None of them would come with him, anyway. He dresses and half-stuffs his feet into his shoes before he strides out the door, slamming it shut behind him. The noise finally, blissfully, makes Percy shut up for a second before he picks back up again.

"Someone's a little touchy this morning," Lincoln says, leaned up against the wall next to the door. "Eager to get started?"

"Eager to get away from them," he says instead, rubbing his eyes. He's used to not getting a ton of sleep; he's always lived with a lot of people. Just never any this damn talkative.

"They're just finishing up breakfast," Lincoln informs him. "Go, if you want. Wake-up call is in ten."

Wake-up call feels like it was hours ago. He nods and starts off down the hall all by his lonesome, shoving his hands in his pockets. He doesn't care for anyone here to be by his side. He never has.

Much to his surprise there's already someone in the mess hall. Kidava - not that he's spoken to her once, or even looked in her direction. She's sitting in the middle of the room, occupying the entirety of one by herself. She's listlessly poking at a bowl of yogurt and fruit with one hand and scrolling her finger over a book with another, looking like she couldn't care less about the food.

He wishes he felt that way.

He grabs a plate and piles on the fresh, piping-hot food. A heap of scrambled eggs and fresh vegetables, crispy fried potatoes and bacon. Even waffles. They haven't given them those yet.

He downs nearly his entire glass of orange juice before he even gets closer to her but sits down anyway with a thud. Her eyebrows raise but she doesn't look up.

"Impressive concentration," he notes. "I assume your roommates are also a plague on society?"

"I guess?" she says. "If by plague on society you mean absolutely worthless when it comes to the Games, sure."

He doesn't know what she means by that. He isn't sure she wants to. "Not what I meant at all, but cool. What's in the book?"

"Harper said it was a best-seller in the Capitol after the Fourth Quarter Quell. It's about the top ten strategies used in the Games. They have a whole collection of them so I'm trying to get through as many of them as I can."

Kidava doesn't really strike him as the bookworm type. Maybe just obsessive, then, and uncaring about it.

"You're what?" he asks. "Twelve, thirteen?"

"I'm _fifteen_ ," she quips back. "How old are you, eighty-five?"

"Probably old enough to kick your ass."

"You'd be surprised," she hums. She still hasn't looked up at him once. He doesn't really get the feeling that she's lying. He's read probably half a dozen books in his life, five of which were regulated by the school-board, and sure as shit doesn't know a lot about anything important. Kidava probably does, twelve or fifteen. You read that much, you begin to absorb it.

She's pretty small.

A lot of Victors were small, too. You tend to underestimate the obvious things.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks, and she shrugs.

He doesn't want to know. He really doesn't.

But there's a small part of him that does, and it's creeping up alongside the worst parts of him.

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17  
Applicant #13**

* * *

"You're pretty cute, you know that?"

She almost anticipates a blush rising on her cheeks - almost. It does, just the faintest bit, until she turns around and looks at Arwen, looking no short of amused.

She doesn't have the strength - or the amount of proper _hands_ \- to be using a _two-handed_ broadsword. Just because Arwen is apparently that magnificent and can just do it, even if she doesn't look like she has the strength herself. There's something Career in this girl, she's sure of it.

"You know, I can never tell if you're lying," she says. "You always just have the sort of same look on your face."

"C'mon, that was a genuine compliment. You look cute when you're frustrated. Your nose sort of screws up and your eyebrows get all narrowed like you're really focusing."

So Arwen's staring. Staring in a way she didn't expect Arwen would ever stare at anyone, considering none of the general populace seems to be on the same level as her. Maybe that's because every shoe she's brought has just a little bit of a heel to it, ensuring that even if she's not the tallest in the room she's still trying to be.

Well, she's staring too. Sue her.

It's not like she's got anything better to do. Everyone else is apparently trying to start an imminently disastrous mass sword fight before they're called away for the situation in a few hours. Arwen wanted to join in. Of course she did. She wasn't going to stand to the side and watch just because she didn't have the proper form to be sword-fighting.

Myra and Jahaira are already over there and hell, even Jupiter is, looking slightly exhilarated and much, much too happy for someone on the receiving end of at least three very pointy weapons.

"Here," Arwen offers. "This one seems a lot lighter."

She grabs the sword from her hand and twirls it around a bit. It is a lot easier to use. It still sends her a little off-balance, but pretty much everything will.

"Why did you never consider getting a prosthetic?" Arwen asks. "I mean, I know it's not perfect but Jupiter seems to be faring well because of it."

Renette isn't far away, watching closely. All of the Instructors are lurking around today as well as the trainers, keeping an eye on them. She still has moments when she wonders that herself. It would probably make her life a lot easier. Sure, people would still stare. They would still ask questions. But at least it would be a pleasant conversation piece, possibly, instead of what it is now.

"I guess I just never thought it would help, not when I was little." She shrugs and looks at the ground. "You know kids in the Capitol, they're judgmental bitches—"

"As am I."

"But not about _this_ ," she insists, but she finds herself fighting off a smile at Arwen's words. "Not about something that was out of my control. My mom always told me to embrace who I was, to not let anyone push me around. And when she died I guess I just sort of... took that to heart. At that point nothing was going to change who I was. So I didn't let it."

"Well, ally, I guess I'll just have to protect you, then."

"Oh, so we're allies now?" she asks, raising her eyebrows. Arwen tucks the sword under her arm and takes her hand, dragging her off across the room towards the others. "You know I don't _need_ protecting, right?"

"Of course I know," Arwen says dramatically. "But Good Saint Winnie likes helping the less fortunate. It's one of my many layers."

Anyone else would take that to heart, would hear less fortunate and get mad, pull away. She laughs, instead, and lets Arwen pull her across the room anyway. It feels right. She thinks people are afraid of Arwen, just a little bit, the same way they're nervous to look at the space where her forearm should be for too long. Maybe it's their hair. Reminders of the Capitol seem to set people off, and they're everywhere here.

"Winnie," she says slowly. "Who calls you that?"

"Only the people I deem worthy of it. A few close friends. My father. That's it."

She waits for something else, for Arwen to add on a quick _so don't call me that, peasant_ because she can hear it perfectly already, like the words were made for Arwen's voice.

But she doesn't, pulling Emmi the last few feet along and she finds herself smiling stupidly even when Arwen looks away. There's a stupid, hysterical part of her that feels like a twelve year old schoolgirl again, like she was experiencing everything around her properly for the first time, standing tall and independent when she had finally vowed not to be a meek and shy person anymore.

"You're pretty cute too, Winnie," she says, and her voice doesn't falter in the slightest. She can't remember the last time it did. That Emmi Langlois is far in the past, the one that took everyone's words to heart and hid herself from the shame that she wasn't all the way perfect.

Maybe Arwen doesn't think she's perfect. Not when she thinks that about herself and only herself. But it feels pretty damn close, and in a world where that's one of the biggest rarities she's not going to let go of it.

Arwen turns around and smiles. She smiles back, and lets it hurt her cheeks.

She decides, right then and there, that the sword-fight doesn't matter.

Neither does the simulation.

The results are the furthest thing from her mind right now.

* * *

 **Soran Faerber, 18  
Applicant #8**

* * *

If everyone gets out of this mass-hysteria induced sword-fight without so much as a scratch, he'll be shocked.

It's not that someone here is asking for an injury, if you exclude Percy from that lump-in. It's just that everyone seems particularly on the side of doing just enough stupid, reckless things that one day it's going to come to a head.

One day it's going to harm someone.

He knows all about what it takes to harm someone, no matter how many years ago he learnt it. It's been a long time, but that type of shit you never forget.

It's why his arrows found their home first. It's why Icarus is still mad about it.

But really, what _isn't_ Icarus mad about?

"You better hurry up, or someone's gonna shank you in the back," Myra says casually. He settles on one of two swords and turns around. He severely doubts either of them, Jahaira especially, would have any luck shanking him in the back.

Hell, even Verity looks like she's considering a hand at trying, but she's probably not tall enough to get a good shot in-between his shoulder blades.

"As if you could."

"I'd let Icarus take the first shot anyway."

Icarus scowls from their left. "Sorry, I'm not going to waste time stabbing someone who looks like a homeless person."

"If he's a homeless person, than what am I?" Myra mutters, gesturing to her shorts and tank-top. He's wearing a t-shirt, jeans and a hat for crying out loud - how much more normal and average could he really get?

"Okay, fashion police," Jahaira quips.

"At least I'm not dressed for my first shift at the goddamn stables," he says. "What, do you train horses for a living?"

Jahaira snickers, and Myra nods, almost thoughtfully. He really does look like it. It's just a lot of vaguely off-white, khaki-looking things. As if Icarus has any right to talk about clothes and what he should or should not be wearing, especially in a situation like this. At least he fits the part of annoying, insufferable instructor who gets off on talking lowly to people even the slightest bit beneath him.

And Icarus has no idea just how low beneath him Soran really is.

"Come near me and I'll stab you."

"Good fucking luck with that," Icarus mutters, and turns around. It would be way, way too easy to plant a knife right in the soft spot of his neck. He has no idea how easy it would be.

"Stop real fighting," Meliodas says as he walks by, tapping Soran's sword with a shorter, much more narrow knife. "Only fake fighting allowed."

"Okay, Dad," he says flatly. "You're fake-dying first, then."

"Probably," he agrees. "Go easy on me in the simulation."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Meris rolls her eyes as she follows him through the crowd. He thought the two of them had deemed themselves above all of this nonsense, metaphorically speaking of course. Neither of them were quite on Icarus' level in that regard. Even Percy, who probably thinks he's on the same platform, is lurking around, although Nic looks like he's ready to grab his arm and pull him away if the time calls for it.

"I don't like that you're so good at twirling that around," Faye says, leaning around his shoulder, and he nearly elbows her in the forehead. "Like, suspiciously good."

"You can call it my forté, if you want."

Faye narrows her eyes, and attempts to spin her own, too-large sword. Has she not learned her lesson from yesterday? It looks like she's trying, but he can't really tell. The fine line between trying and trying way, way too hard has been wiped over, blurred, and completely obliterated by this girl. She's trying to make up for what she lacks in size compared to the rest of them and simply can't.

That's the sad thing about this entire group, if he's being honest. You can smile and chat and pretend you're friends with them, but it's hard to get out of the back of your mind that they're _falling for it._ He has nothing against them. Never has. Probably won't ever well.

You can act one way and think another. That's the lesson they all need to be taught, not any of this bullshit.

A sword won't save you if someone's well and truly playing you.

Icarus nudges him as he slides by, bumps their shoulders together, and at first he thought he was the one riling Icarus up, not the other way around. He turns the sword, jabbing him in the leg with the blunted edge.

"What's your problem?"

"Got a lot of problems. You could say it's my _forté_ ," Icarus mimics, and shoves the sword away.

"What kind of problems could you possibly have?" he asks, genuinely curious. " _Daddy issues_? I've got those too. You're not special."

Icarus actually snorts. It's the most human, ordinary sound he thinks he's heard come out of him. It doesn't even sound right coming out of his mouth. The mighty Icarus, having fallen down to their stupid, idiotic mortal plain. How tragic it must be for him.

At least he didn't die when he fell.

"I think I'm pretty special," Icarus says, reverting right back to the holier state.

"Yeah, that's a word for it," he says flatly. " _Special_."

Icarus actually leans back to try and elbow him, so he leaps away. He doesn't have time for this anyway.

They've got a sword-fight to start and finish.

They've got a simulation to get to.

* * *

 **Topher Westmoreland, 12  
Applicant #24**

* * *

Noelani can't stop him from doing everything.

She never could decide things quick enough, not back home and not here. She didn't want to get involved in everyone's play-fighting, so she stays away. He even lures Tarquin over, who must have some experience tossing wooden swords around.

Not that it helped anyway.

He doesn't think he'd be a bad swordsman, if you gave him ten years and twenty hours a day of practice. It doesn't look that tricky to get a hang of, if you're someone taller, stronger, and more coordinated. All of the things he's not. While he'd like to pretend that he's someone he's not, it doesn't always work that way. You can act a certain way only for so long, if your actions don't match up to it.

They break for lunch. Dinner, whatever it is. There's not so much a concept of time in here as there is a gut feeling when they'll be allowed out of the room, and this is one of them. He sits down across the table from Noelani even though something tells him to go off and sit with someone else. Anyone else. He should have spent more time on his own here; God knows he spends enough time with her at home.

It's why when Nyko and Renette enter the mess hall he's one of the first ones on his feet. Only Verity beats him, which makes it all too easy to follow along behind her to end up second in the line to... wherever they're going, really.

The fact that they all seem excited about this, for the most part, must be a little morbid. Renette doesn't necessarily look excited. More thoughtful, as she watches them all cluster up near the doors to be led out. She watched so many kids from her District die - they all died, and here she is watching twenty-four of them line up to fake it like it's a party.

"So what exactly are we going to do?" Verity asks, wedging herself out the door after Nyko like she's ever going to lose sight of him. She's quick enough that that would never happen. "Are you just going to give us all weapons and let us go at it?"

"Not exactly." Nyko laughs. "Like we've been saying, it's a _simulation_. A virtual reality experience. A few colleagues and myself have been working on it for years. The technology was always developed enough to see and hear what was going on if you were provided with the right equipment, but we didn't exactly want to put you all in twenty-four separate rooms and let you stumble into the walls trying to hit each other."

"What Nyko's saying is that it reads the patterns of your brain. Interprets your actions and thoughts in real life and transfers them to a virtual world," Renette explains. "If you see something that you want to pick up, the you that exists in the simulation will pick it up, and you'll be walking around as if it's really in your hand."

"And that's safe?" he asks. Not that he particularly cares - it sounds fun either way.

"As safe as we could have possibly made it," Nyko assures. "The technology can register injures and critical hits, but you won't feel a thing. Once your personal simulation ends, that means your theoretical death is confirmed. We'll get you out of the headset, if you want to call it that, and share the results."

"Oh, so what kind of arena is it, then?" Verity asks, practically bouncing on her feet. "Something outdoors, like the mountains? Or, snow, I love the snow."

"You'll see," Renette says. "It's only roughly the size of the gymnasium, maybe slightly larger. We don't want this to last very long."

Of course not. Because this is where they end the realism; leaving them in there for several days or even several weeks. They've already put them through the most real motion they can, why not extend it to that?

"Alright, everyone choose a seat. It doesn't matter where."

Nyko opens the door. Verity practically bolts to the front row of seats, although it doesn't really look like it matters. There's a little monitor in front of every chair, and some sort of weird looking headgear lying beneath it. There's an even larger screen at the front of the room, he guesses, so that the Instructors can see what's going on.

He almost heads for Verity, but Noelani nudges him into a row and he has no choice but to pick a seat with her next to him. At the same second Jay busts into the row next to them, looking down.

"Can you move over, Toph?"

Toph, like he knows him. And he wants Topher to move over, leaving a seat between him and Noelani, so that Jay can sit next to her? Fat chance.

"That seats empty," he says flatly, gesturing to the one in the aisle. It's a few over from Noelani, and he doesn't look the least bit impressed with it. But Noelani doesn't move, and neither does he, so eventually Jay lets out a huff and heads back down the aisle, sitting down with a very sad-looking thump.

"What a loser," he mutters.

" _Topher_ ," Noelani chastises. "C'mon."

"What? He is."

Noelani doesn't agree. Noelani doesn't think that the guy with a wicked bad crush on her is a bit of a loser, for following her around like he thinks he has the slightest chance. It's gross. He doesn't get relationships.

He settles back in the seat, sinking into it. Nyko's already headed around the room, moving from person to person.

Soon, it'll be his turn. Then they can get this over with.

Whatever _this_ even turns out to be.

* * *

I'll be honest I just want to get to the Games-Games. Also I nearly forgot to upload this.

Let me know what you thought!

Until next time.


	14. Murderer Mentality

XI.

* * *

 **Myra Callaghan-Alistair, 18  
Applicant #5**

* * *

Nyko straps whatever sort of weird looking headgear on her head and over her face.

After that, the world sort of disappears.

It's not like anyone's gotten through the world thus far without having touched a video game of some sort, but this is something else. One second she's sitting down in her seat and the next she's standing, sort of miraculously.

Renette was right - it's not a very big area. There are no walls but she can see clearly where they would be, and where their boundaries are. The walls are shimmering almost like a force-field, but she knew if she were to touch them nothing would happen. Besides that, it's almost sort of underwhelming. There's grass. Trees. A little bit of a sound of running water, right behind her, but it's lost in the tall grass.

There's no plate. She's not standing on anything.

"Did anyone ask if there was a countdown?" she yells, looking around the circle. There's no cornucopia, either, no countdown hovering above it. Just a large, spread-out pile of supplies that slowly diminishes as it gets closer to each of them. To her right, Jahaira chuckles nervously, toeing the ground underneath her. She was sitting next to her, before. Arwen was on her other side as she stands now, looking around with her eyebrows raised high on her forehead.

"Well, is someone gonna test the theory out?" Trojan yells. "The first person to—"

Something _explodes_ , far to her right. There's a few screams, someone lets out a shriek, and Jahaira lets out a muttered _jesus christ_. She keeps her feet planted firmly where they are.

The dust clears, and there's no one there. The empty spot between Sabre and Meris has no person in it, nothing to signify anyone was ever there but the large crater in the ground right in front of where they were standing.

"Who the hell was that?" she whispers, and Jahaira shakes her head, almost in awe. "Is this not a little bit fucked up?"

It is. God, it is. But it's going to make such a good story later.

"Hey!" Faye shouts. She leans down without moving and grabs a chunk of the crater rock in her fist, hefting it up. A few people look up at her, but not Sabre, who's eyes are still fixed very intently on the hole in the ground just beside him. She pitches the rock at him, and he must hear it, just before it impacts, because he turns just in time for it to catch him in the chest. He goes stumbling back; she sees him trip gracelessly out of his little ring of flattened grass. Something else explodes.

Five seconds later, there is no Sabre in there at all.

Jahaira is fucking _laughing_ , and Arwen is snickering like it's the funniest thing she's seen in weeks and - it just might be?

Is it?

Something rings, the high little peel of a bell. Trojan gives a little two-footed hop out of his ring and onto the grass in front of him. Nothing happens.

"Uh-oh," Jahaira whispers, and she takes off.

She dives for the first thing in front of her, a machete, and scoops it up. Jahaira collides with her back, still laughing up a storm.

"Myra, Myra, protect me, please," she says, practically breathless with it, and then she squeaks. Myra turns only because of that noise - watches Topher crash into Verity as they both dive for the same knife. Verity turns it back on him. She waits, watches, whole body stiffening as she prepared for the knife to plunge into his neck.

And it does, but it doesn't. There's no spurt of blood, no ugly gouge in his skin. The knife hits him and the image that is Topher disappears. Verity herself looks wide-eyed, shocked, like it was an accident?

"This is hilarious," Jahaira decides.

There's a thud behind them. Jahaira turns her around, this time, in time to see Jupiter's body almost but not quite hit the grass as Kidava buries a sword in her back. She never gets there, no matter how much Myra waits for the impact, for the imprint of her corpse in the trampled grass. Of all the people, it was Kidava she didn't expect to give a shit about who deserved a break. At least she was right.

She starts pulling Jahaira off. No point standing around. Kidava makes her way across the circle right where they were standing and is on Verity before she can even get to her feet. Someone with one fully intact limb, and a thirteen year old. Wouldn't _that_ look good on a resume?

She feels Jahaira let go of her, but thinks nothing of it. She sees her reach down to pick up two throwing knives, and then, _oh_ —

There's a third in her back.

It's very odd, watching Jahaira stumble forward like she's dead or close to it. Odd in the weirdest way you could imagine. Trojan is ten feet behind her, an identical knife left in his hand. He's lifting his arm up, ready—

Oh, he's going to throw it at her.

She very wisely books it, and the knife tumbles over and over past where she had been standing. Nearly collides with Gideon as he takes down Nicator. Watches Percy stop in something that's not quite full horror but close to it, looking appropriately aghast. It's the only word she can think of to describe it.

"I did not sign up for this," he insists, and then looks at her. She points the machete at him.

His eyes widen. Emmi and Arwen appear at her side. While she's not the most friendly with them, not even close, it's not even an agreement that she'd turn the machete on one of them before Percy. There's that unspoken Group A code she was so hoping would kick in.

"You wouldn't," he mutters.

Her and Emmi lunge forward at the same time.

Percy doesn't last very long, after that.

* * *

 **Jupiter Valens, 14  
Applicant #16**

* * *

"I'm surprised you're not dead yet!" Noelani shouts at him, smiling.

If she's smiling, she must not know that Topher's already out of it. Her and Tarquin took off pretty quick, after all, because Topher seemed so inclined to go off on his own anyway. Noelani was a sibling, sort of, not a babysitter. She couldn't very well keep an eye on him twenty-four-seven.

But _he's_ the smart one here, and takes off after the pair of them because he really doesn't have much time left, here. They're leaving tomorrow, he thinks. He's got this and dinner tonight to make a lasting impact.

If she needs some heroic saving, he'll be here.

And Tarquin, which is... rapidly becoming a problem.

He shouldn't do anything. They're friends, nothing more. They seem really similar. He'd be pretty offended himself if someone took out one of his friends just to get closer to him. But this isn't real. Noelani can't be angry at him for something that isn't real.

He only has one knife. One knife is all it will take.

He waits until Tarquin stops and turns, glancing through the trees, then buries the knife in the nape of his neck. Noelani makes a little, choked noise like it was the real thing, and then whirls on him.

"What the _hell_?"

He shrugs, clamming up at the look on her face. At their feet, Tarquin disappears. Noelani doesn't have it in her to be properly angry, he thinks, but she kinda looks it now, and it's terrifying. He didn't think beyond actually getting rid of him. He didn't account for any of this.

"Give me that, idiot," she insists, reaching for the knife. He backpedals a few feet, hugging it close to his chest.

"No. It's not like you're going to do anything with it."

Well, now she looks offended. Curse his mouth, no matter how true it is. He certainly can't picture Noelani killing anyone. Hell, if it was her and Tarquin in the final two they would have stood there and complimented each other until one of them fell over dead from the overwhelming force of it all. Nothing good would've come of that. Nothing at all.

She reaches for it again, and he holds an arm out. She grabs him by the wrist, trying to twist the knife free. He tries to shove her away - well, this isn't exactly the hug he expected, but he's holding onto her in the very least. If only he can make her see sense. Tarquin wasn't going to do anything, either. In this sense standing around doing nothing is synonymous with being useless.

She jerks, and he tries to pull his arm free.

The knife catches her in the chest, and Noelani literally disappears from his arms.

He stops in surprise, looking down at the knife. It's pointed outwards, but not enough...

Was it enough? Did he just kill her?

"Oh shit," he says flatly. "Oh shit, why. Why me?"

Here he stands alone, in the middle of the fake woods. He can still hear shouting. The noise is everywhere in such a small space, like there are real walls for it to bounce off of. He digs his feet further into the ridiculously fake dirt, angry when it doesn't even leave a scuff mark on his shoes.

How to blow an entire plan, and day, by Jay Valens.

He sighs, and plunges the knife into his own chest.

The first sign of coming back to life is a pair of gentle hands at his temples, trying to wiggle him free of the gear. The headset comes off his face and he squints in the light, unaware of just how bright it was before. What's brighter is Noelani and her hair, standing right in front of him. She puts the headset down. The glare on her face is spectacular, if he does say so himself.

"You are an _idiot_ ," she says flatly, and then heads off down the aisle. Topher is giggling like he didn't die almost immediately, and Tarquin is shaking his head.

God, why him?

He squints further, flattens his palms along the armrests of his chairs to ground himself. It's very odd, suddenly being back in the room. A row down Renette takes the headset off Emmi, the first one back after him. He looks up at the screen, trying to see what happened, but it's already changed onto bigger and much better things. Icarus finally runs into Soran, a dooming action from the start. Meliodas is there too, and Jay fully understands why he looks so amused. It's an amusing situation.

He can still see and hear everything like he's there. It's jarring.

"Hey, hey," Icarus says, hands up. It doesn't matter, with how close Soran is. "I don't even have a weapon, alright?"

"Okay?" Soran says. "Nice to know. You wouldn't hit me with it anyway."

Icarus huffs. "What are you gonna do, stab me? I'd like to see you—"

He does just that, slipping in-between Icarus' arms into his exposed chest and burying the sword there. Meliodas bends over in a fit of laughter, struggling to clutch onto his stomach, and doesn't move an inch when Soran turns back on him. They're both smiling, anyway, like this is gleeful.

It would've been for him too, had he not screwed it up.

Kidava and Trojan are still on their tirade. Kidava finally catches up to Isperia, who doesn't appear to be doing much other than attempting to blend into the brush when Kidava slits her throat. Trojan practically sends Faye flying, no mercy for the twelve year old to be seen here. For what she did to Sabre, he'd almost say she deserves it.

Final eight already.

Who would've thought?

* * *

 **Kidava Vaud, 15  
Applicant #21**

* * *

"Stay away from me!" she shouts at Trojan. Faye disappears from his feet and he rolls his eyes, already walking off in the opposite direction.

At least that's one problem sorted, for now.

There are swords clashing to her right. A lot of them. Meris got Emmi, that she knows - apparently even those codes break eventually, but it doesn't appear that she's going to get Gideon. He's faster than her, slips right under her arm and to her side, and hits her with a goddamn tree branch. She hits the ground and he bashes her over the head with it - once, twice, three times.

Eventually she disappears. Kidava still finds herself grimacing, but not interfering.

Caiman's there, anyway, and Arwen too. They both have swords, too. Caiman almost accidentally tackles Gideon in her quest to escape the reach of the branch, and then swings the sword towards him in a wide arc that she knows would have buried itself in his neck, had he not disappeared with a flash at the first sight of almost-impact.

Caiman stares, like even she's confused about it. Arwen gets her in the back with the sword while she stands there, unmoving.

The two of them, the only ones left standing there, look each other up and down. Arwen apparently decides her time is precious, and leaves Kidava standing there in the dust when she disappears back into the thick of the woods.

Like hell she's getting away. Not when there's so few of them left.

She gives chase through the grass, avoiding the worst of the fallen branches and brush as she races to catch up with her. The purple hair is sort of a dead giveaway in such greenery; Kidava knows she can blend in while the rest of them kill each other, if she stays hidden. Too bad she's not going to stay hidden, not the way some of the cowards in the real Games did. There's no point to hiding.

She's steadily gaining on her, anyway. Before she can get there someone comes practically tumbling out of the brush between them and she skids to a halt. Soran looks at her, bow half-raised, and she freezes. This isn't good. An arrow will kill her before she can get anywhere close enough to him to stop it's progress.

Soran decides something, she sees it in his eyes. He turns away from her and towards Arwen's retreating form, getting further and further away, letting an arrow go.

It buries itself square in-between her blades. Kidava sees it even from a distance, as her form disappears from the middle of the woods.

"Where'd you get that?" she asks, and raises the sword half-heartedly when he eyes her again.

"Took it from Mel."

"Did you kill him?"

"He let me, to be fair," Soran points out, and nocks another arrow.

The sounds of fighting close to their left dies out, and the sounds of someone tromping through the undergrowth grows louder and louder. Somehow she knows it's Trojan, despite warning him away. No one would make that must purposeful noise coming towards them, alerting them to his presence.

Sure enough Trojan shoves his way out of the bush and stumbles to a halt in front of them, waving a few lone drooping tendrils out of his way. He's got an axe, now. She doesn't remember seeing that in the pile. Probably didn't spend enough time looking, before she hurried her way to Jupiter, eager to get the first kill out of the way before she could lose her chance.

"Got Myra," he informs them. "So is it just the three of us?"

It must be. She can't hear anything except her own panting, slightly breathless from the brief run over here.

Soran's nocked arrow is pointed more towards Trojan than her, and his sword is sheathed. If they kill Trojan in such close quarters, he won't be able to turn the arrow back on her fast enough, not with such little room. The sword won't even have a chance to come out.

Trojan's still brandishing that damn axe. It's a pretty easy decision.

She tears towards him, sword pointed outward. Trojan barely dodges the arrow Soran sends at his head, tripping through the grass on his boots that are too big, too awkward. The sword glances off his arm when she finally gets close enough and then catches against the edge of the axe when he blocks her next hit. He knocks her back a few feet, shoves the two weapons back until she's forced to let him do it, backing up in order to avoid getting stabbed herself.

Soran will hit him, if she can distract him. A distraction is as good as any killing blow. It still counts as credit.

She drops the sword, and he watches it fall to the grass, eyes confused. She leaps at him and wraps her hand around the handle of the axe over his, intent on yanking it away. He's stronger than her, there was never any doubt, but it doesn't matter.

The arrow that whistles overhead barely misses the top of her scalp, and it hits Trojan square in the neck. There's no immediate gush of blood over her face at the proximity. She almost wishes there was.

He drops, disappears. She wrenches the axe out and hefts it back up in the air. It's heavy. Heavier than her sword was, though she doesn't think she'll be able to get it back now.

Just one more.

One more.

She turns. There's an arrow a foot from her face.

"Sorry," Soran says, a second before the arrow flies.

The world goes black, blacker than anything else.

She doesn't think he was all that sorry.

* * *

 **Nyko Ziegler, 28  
Instructor: Group D**

* * *

Teenagers are a wonder.

Kidava looks like a bomb about to go off, when they finally get the gear off her. She stands up on her chair and looks a row back, where Lincoln is just getting Soran out of it. Soran, who shot her in the face to win without even thinking about it.

Clearly she swallows whatever it is she wants to say, and he can imagine it feeling like glass going back down.

Renette finishes printing off the list from the back of the room and hands it to him. It's the same list now displayed on the monitor at the very front, the one that everyone slowly starts to look up at as they realize what's being laid before them.

It's not that surprising of a list, based on what he's seen in the training facility these past few days.

 **FINAL STANDINGS:**

 **TWENTY-FOURTH**. Damas Mancer.  
 **TWENTY-THIRD**. Sabre Hennedige.  
 **TWENTY-SECOND**. Topher Westmoreland.  
 **TWENTY-FIRST**. Jupiter Valentine.  
 **TWENTIETH.** Verity Alameda.  
 **NINETEENTH**. Jahaira Aurelion.  
 **EIGHTEENTH**. Nicator Selton.  
 **SEVENTEENTH**. Percius Marigold.  
 **SIXTEENTH**. Tarquin Vierra.  
 **FIFTEENTH**. Noelani Westmoreland.  
 **FOURTEENTH**. Jupiter Valens.  
 **THIRTEENTH**. Emmi Langlois.  
 **TWELFTH**. Icarus Devereux.  
 **ELEVENTH**. Meliodas Vergara.  
 **TENTH**. Isperia Martorell.  
 **NINTH**. Faye Ackerman.  
 **EIGHTH**. Meris Loucare.  
 **SEVENTH**. Gideon Mallory.  
 **SIXTH**. Caiman Mangle.  
 **FIFTH.** Arwen Paoul.  
 **FOURTH**. Myra Callaghan-Alistair.  
 **THIRD**. Trojan Geomantra.  
 **SECOND**. Kidava Vaud.  
 **FIRST**. Soran Faerber.

"As everyone can see, these are the final standings of our simulation. Went even better than I expected. If anyone has any comments, questions, recommendations for next year—"

"Next year?" Meliodas asks.

"Provided that all went well this year and the feedback from you, as well as from everyone stationed here, proved positive enough to have another Program next summer, the government agreed to fund it. So if anyone has something they'd like to say..."

"This is bullshit," Kidava mutters, although he's certain everyone hears it. Harper leans over the back of her chair to say something, more quietly, but Kidava only shakes her head.

"Make it bigger," Topher says, shifting in his seat. "So I have more room to run away."

Someone starts snickering. He's not sure if it's Verity or someone close by, someone who finds this more amusing than they should. That was sort of the point, though. To make the Games something easier to remember. If they could replace even a few of the bad memories with some more positive ones...

Maybe it was a pipe dream. But he was willing to gamble on it.

"Alright, well that's that," Renette says. "You're free for the rest of the day. Dinner is at six-thirty. You're welcome to return to the training facility, your rooms, or to seek us out for further conversation. Wake-up call will be at five to get you on the hovercraft back to the Capitol."

Trojan yanks his hood over his face, groaning, and then gets to his feet. Nyko can only presume back off to his bed he goes for the rest of the day - nothing more to work on, when he already got third.

He watches the rest of them file out. Renette ushers them out the door and then follows with Harper on her heels.

Someone still needs to watch them, and he doesn't suspect Ridge will have much interest anymore.

"Well, that went well," Lincoln says, nudging him in the arm. "I think bigger for next year, too."

"How long did it last for?" he asks, and Aelia flicks through a few screens.

"Twenty-three minutes, forty seconds," she answers. "Definitely shorter than any real Games, but what could you expect, in such close quarters? They were having fun."

He suspects Lincoln has something to say about the merits of fun and murdering all tied into one together, but the other man doesn't say anything, waving behind him as he heads for the door. Someone has to make sure Trojan actually makes it back to their rooms instead of going wandering off into nowhere.

"I hope they approve the funding for next year," Aelia says. "This was fun. I'd like to do it again."

Again with the fun. But he knows, for Aelia, that this was what she was meant to do. She's good at corralling them. Good at helping him out with all of this, even when he hadn't expected her to.

"Me too," he agrees. "Hopefully I'll see you then."

"Or before that," she says idly, but when he looks down all her attention is focused back on the computer, like it never wavered in the first place. He smiles, and her lips quirk up even with her eyes trained elsewhere.

Yeah, he could do this again next year.

* * *

Results of the simulation will be up on the blog soon, so you don't have to come back to this chapter every time you so much as think about it. As always my random placements and such don't have any actual effect on the Games themselves, so don't worry too much if something looks oddly out of place or unlikely. This was just for fun.

Let me know your thoughts, and if this was what you expected. Maybe, but who knows.

Until next time.


	15. The End All

XII.

* * *

 **Noelani Westmoreland, 16  
Applicant #11**

* * *

Despite all the drama, she knows she's going to miss this place.

Not in the same way she misses home. It'll be more of a distant missing, like a place she didn't even get to know before she was taken away from it. It doesn't feel like they were here for nearly long enough, like she could have done more. Maybe she wasn't the most serious person during training - she wasn't sure anyone was.

Well, anyone not by the name of Kidava Vaud. She had taken it plenty seriously.

She still hadn't even begun to nail down what Kidava's entire deal was, either. Maybe that was part of the problem with her reluctance to leave. Everyone else in the room, even preoccupied with packing, seemed obvious enough. Faye talked about herself, a lot. About a lot of other important things too, but her own self seemed to be the biggest one. Verity was sweet, sweet as could be. Sweet with a breaking point for the amount of nonsense she could room with.

Ria seldom spoke to her no matter how hard she tried, and tried she did. She had been talking to Tarquin this morning in the hall and hadn't looked like she wanted to run away. Maybe that was progress. Caiman was a bundle of things, but at least she felt like she knew them. Sometimes they would wake up and talk for an hour, chat for a breakfast. Sometimes Caiman would go off by herself with a million questions behind her eyes, and if eyes were a mirror to the soul than Noelani couldn't see through this one. Like it was one-way.

She had half a mind to ask, but sometimes, like with Ria, people didn't respond well to prying.

"I hope the dogs didn't miss me too much," Verity says. "Last time we went on vacation for a few days Scout wouldn't listen to me for like, a week."

Verity has kind of made Noelani want a dog. She doesn't think Topher would protest it. She files that away for later, something to pester her father about. Someone even opened up a shelter last year, near the Bluffs. Surely something there needs a home.

"I'm sure they'll forgive you," she answers, and Verity smiles. Dogs are forgiving, most of the time. People not so much.

She's seen Jay walk by a handful of times. He only looked in the first. He's probably doing the same to all the rooms as he passes through the hall, not just because she's in here. In an odd way, they're kind of similar in the respect that they haven't forged any real connections within only one room. She doesn't think he dislikes Tarquin, just his general proximity. Maybe he dislikes Topher. She can't really tell.

It doesn't matter now. She's going back to Four, and he's going back to... wherever it is that she lives. She never asked.

She feels really bad for never asking, but she's had a lot of things on her mind. Asking where someone lives was the least of her concern.

"Lani, do you have room in your bag?" Topher asks, carrying an armful of things through the door. "I can't fit them in mine."

"Everything fit in there when we got here."

"Yeah, because Mom helped me pack. I don't know how to organize it all like she did."

She sighs and takes the armful of clothes from him, cramming them into the corner of her suitcase. If they're wrinkly later, it's not her issue.

Topher's still there, bouncing on the balls of his feet. She wonders if he picked up that habit from her.

"What's up?"

"I just saw the hovercraft land. It's bigger than I thought it would be."

"They're all generally the same size, Toph."

"I _know,_ but I've never been in one. You, either. You'll think the same thing. I'm done packing, now. I wish they'd let me go get a good seat."

A good seat for what, she wants to ask, but can't be bothered. She's too busy trying to jam the zipper shut with all of Topher's things crammed inside her bag. She doesn't think there will be many good views from the inside of a hovercraft, not unless you're the pilot, which Topher safely isn't.

"Go find Nyko, see if you can go outside then," she suggests, and he nods, zipping out of the room. She's almost shocked he's considering listening to such authority, let alone her...

"Don't just go outside! Ask him!" she shouts into the hallway after Topher's rapidly retreating form. She's not going to lie, she probably wouldn't ask either. The doors leading to the front of the building aren't far away, and if that's where the hovercraft is it wouldn't be hard to get there, unless someone's watching the doors.

Kidava makes a little noise, one that almost sounds like a scoff, and if Noelani was any other person she'd turn around and knock the little bag she had in her hands to the floor.

But she's not, she's here. She stays put.

Jay walks by again. At this point she's not sure what his goal is, because he doesn't so much as look at her despite how close to the door she is.

"Trouble in paradise?" Verity asks, and she sighs again. Far from Paradise. More like desert hell.

Why does she feel bad? Jay is the one that knifed her in the chest, no matter if it was an accident or not. Him killing Tarquin certainly wasn't an accident.

Maybe she'll sit next to him on the hovercraft. It's not like they're going to see each other after this anyway.

Yeah. Maybe she will.

* * *

 **Percius Marigold, 17  
Applicant #2**

* * *

"Are you going to miss it?" Nic asks.

"Miss seeing you everyday," he says instead of answering, because he's tired and not thinking straight and he means it. The wall of heat as they step outside together only makes matters worse - it's like walking into a tower of bricks.

Maybe the heat doesn't bug Nic, because it doesn't seem to. It's more likely that nothing at all bugs him. If he can deal with Percy he can deal with anything.

"Where the hell do you think we are?" he asks, muttered to avoid all the dust getting in his mouth. It doesn't help that the hovercraft is kicking up even more than there would be normally, and he hurries up the ramp, even if it means quite literally leaving Nicator in the dust behind him. He shelters safely behind the wall, eyeing the few rows of seats. Only a few people have chosen theirs, sitting almost in silence.

It's odd, compared to the last few days.

"Where the hell are we?" he asks Lincoln, still cowering behind the wall while he waits for Nicator. Even Lincoln is shielding his eyes, squinting at the glaring sun.

"Somewhere not far from Old Vegas, s'what I was told. Between there and Death Valley."

"I thought Death Valley was off-limits."

"It is. But we're far enough away that it's not dangerous. Besides, it's been a hundred and sixty-nine years; any leftover radiation from what they dumped there during the Dark Days wouldn't have any lasting effect. It's just inhabitable."

"What?" Nicator asks, nudging into his shoulder. "What's going on?"

"Oh, just the musings of someone who fucking hates the heat," he tells him. "Let's go."

He chooses a seat as far away from the door as he can manage to find and Nicator sits down beside him. Anyone who could bother eyeing them up isn't around yet, which he used to take for granted and now blesses. Anybody from Group B's room can mind their damn business. So what if they were sleeping in the same damn bed, it's not like anything happened.

Someone boards - he suspects the pilot, with their helmet and official looking jacket. A woman comes on behind and nods to Lincoln. She begins to pass out a few papers and pens, first to Topher, who practically extends his hands eagerly to them, and then to Ria and Verity. Eventually she makes her way over to them, offering up a similar load.

"What are these?" he asks, even as Nicator takes two sets with a smile full of teeth and no insincerity.

"An evaluation of the Program," she answers. "Although we can't force you, we'd prefer that you filled it out to help better prepare for next year."

Next year. Right. He can only assume they'll be using the same facilities. He has half a mind to warn anyone that applies next year that the heat just isn't worth it.

He takes the papers, even though he doesn't want to, and before he can stop himself wraps his hand around Nic's, holding onto it tightly enough that neither of them could pull away without it being tremendously awkward. He makes a show of studying the paper, not there's much on the front. Name, number, group they belonged to. He doesn't want to imagine what's inside it, all of the questions they could ask.

"I need that hand to write, you know," Nic says quietly, a full minute later.

"Write with your left."

"I can't."

"Don't fill it out, then." He shrugs, and writes his name down, balancing the bundle awkwardly on his knee. Some example he is.

"Perc, c'mon," he chides lightly, but he's smiling. "Give me my hand back or we won't go on a date when we get back."

"Was this not a date?" he asks mockingly, and Nic rolls his eyes. Some date this was.

But it moved things along, did it not? Made things easier. They could have tip-toed around each other for literal years before one of them ever made a move. He felt like he could throw up every time he looked at him, unable to understand the kindness and the good heart and everything in-between.

And for some reason, Nic still likes him.

That he hasn't figured out.

He still lets go though, with some reluctance, and watches Nicator fill out the basic information on the first page. Even his writing is gentle, the letters on the side of too small and sweeping across the lines in gentle curves. His just look like the haggard, spiky lines of a heart monitor. Worse than that, probably.

"We're going on a date," he says firmly, and Nicator doesn't look up, lasered in on his task, but he smiles. Nudges his shoulders into Percy's a little bit again, like down on the ramp, and he feels warm again inside all over again. He tends to have that stereotypical crush effect.

Or maybe that's just the suffocating heat.

"Look at the last page," Nic says quietly, so he does. Flips to it even though he doesn't particularly care. It's mostly blank, save for many, many lines and the little title dotted across the rank.

 _Rank your fellow applicants in order of deserved placement._

"Does that mean... how much we like them?" Nic asks slowly, tapping his pen on the arm of his seat. "That's a little bit messed up. Why do they need to know that?"

"Funny is what it is," he responds, and then writes down Icarus' name in the twenty-third row. Just you know, because.

But that raises a lot of questions. Who deserves to be first, if not Nicator? He's glad there's only twenty-three options here, and that he's not one of them. If he had to put himself on the list that may raise a few issues.

Messed up it is.

But what about this isn't?

* * *

 **Caiman Mangle, 15  
Applicant #21**

* * *

It takes her the entire time she spends there to work up the courage to talk to Jupiter.

Even then, it's too late.

She doesn't mean to stalk them all the way outside and up the ramp into the hovercraft, but it's the only way. She sits down next to them, doesn't even get an odd look for trying, and takes a deep breath.

Someone drops a sheaf of papers on the armrest of her chair along with a pen and she stares at them for too long. By the time she really settles in Jupiter is already leafing through the thing, murmuring quietly to Gideon on her other side.

She does the same. The woman who dropped off the papers comes around again to make sure they're securely strapped in, tightening the metal bracings around her legs. What if she needs to get up and pee? Is there even a bathroom on this thing?

She didn't think this through at all.

By the time she thinks to ask the woman is already headed away, presumably back towards the cockpit, and she never gets the chance to ask. She lays everything on her lap and forces herself to breathe. It's really not that big of a deal. They've got a few hours back to the Capitol, at least. She doesn't have to start up a conversation right away. She has time.

She scans through all of the pages, something else to focus on. Mostly generic questions. _What was your favorite thing to learn and experience while at the Program? Is there anything you would suggest to add for next year_?

Gideon is already half-enthusiastically filling out the last page, and every once in a while Jupiter will lean over, seemingly to chastise him for something. She can only imagine what's going on with that list. She leans over, trying to catch a glimpse of Jupiter's. Jupiter is nice, rational. Probably got to know most people here better than she did. Their list is most likely the fairest of them all.

She copies down most of it while Jupiter isn't looking and fills in the ones towards the bottom by herself with the leftover names; trust Jupiter not to fill those ones out. They probably don't even want to.

The hovercraft is rumbling, taking off. Most people are looking around at any sliver of light they can catch at all awkward angles of the hovercraft, trying to see the terrain as they soar higher and higher into the air. She keeps her eyes firmly fixed on her lap; she's never been good with heights.

"You okay?" Jupiter asks, while she's still looking down. It's almost enough to draw her eyes elsewhere. "You look sort of nervous."

She is. She's also sort of stupid, which explains a lot. For someone normally so outlandish and bold she feels like she's been reduced to a nervous little shell, a hermit crab fleeing back into the safety of the only thing it has.

"I'll manage," she says, and then, because it may be the only time she works up the nerve, "I know we haven't really talked much, but do you think I could have your number?"

She doesn't want to talk here, she's realized. Not in front of everyone else. Even Sabre is watching them, which must mean it's fairly obvious.

"Sure," they answer, smiling. "Our phones are in our bags, so..."

She nods and extends her arm, enough for Jupiter to scribble down a series of numbers on the inside of her arm, just below her elbow. It's legible enough. Will last until she gets home. She ignores the cold, awkward brush of the prosthetic against the soft skin of her forearm. It feels like the right thing to do.

"Thanks," she says quietly, and Jupiter nods. It's almost encouraging. It's also most definitely weird.

But it's a good step for her. If that's what she really thinks she is.

She notices it. She's not sure anyone else does. The woman pokes her head out of the cockpit and then slinks back towards the now-closed exit ramp, disappearing from view. Caiman only sees it because she thinks it's Harper, for a second. They don't really look alike, but it's the hair... red wouldn't normally stand out, not in the middle of this group, but for some reason it does.

The braces around her legs keeping her in place tighten. She looks down.

Jupiter doesn't notice, she wouldn't expect them to. But Gideon looks down for a second too, like the same thing happened. He looks around for a second and their eyes meet over the top of Jupiter's head.

"You too?" he asks, and she nods.

The whole hovercraft shakes.

Turbulence. That's what it is - turbulence. Jupiter says as much next to her, although everyone is looking around now, uneasy.

Uneasy, the same way she felt when they first arrived. But she hadn't felt it since then. Everything was fine. There was nothing to be concerned about, certainly nothing to be _suspicious_ about.

But the whole thing shakes again. She stays firmly in place because of the bracings; she leans down to tug at them, but they don't budge an inch. They're solid metal, at least an inch thick. She's not going anywhere.

Why is she not allowed to go anywhere?

Up until the hovercraft had been moving smoothly, quicker than anything else in the world, even the bullet trains. There's another abrupt shudder and the thing stops moving entirely. She twists her head around, trying to see outside. Are they on the ground? They'd only been moving for a few minutes, definitely far away from the facility but nowhere close to the Capitol.

"What the hell?" Gideon murmurs. There's a sharp hiss and the back ramp starts to lower down again. It's too bright, practically white as the sunlight assaults the previously dark space, and she finds herself squinting again. Not in suspicion.

No, something like acceptance starts spilling into her veins. For once in her life, she'd oddly, terrifying calm.

There's a shape of nearly black in the light, wavering in the desert heat. A person.

Something jabs into her leg, and she yelps. Jupiter does the same next to her. Even Gideon's whole leg jerks as he tries to pull away from it. The pain only flashes for a second, like getting a shot. Like the prick of a needle.

Like a needle...

She's so serenely calm.

And then she's nothing at all.

* * *

Got my ass kicked by a baby shower today, among other things. Apologies for the delay.

Poll is up on my profile for anyone interested. Once again it has zero effect on the _actual_ "bloodbath" because I've had it written for an approximate six centuries. I'm mostly just curious as to what you all think and it's a good way for me to gauge how many people I have actively reading.

The blog will be down until the next update while I figure out how to add something to it without completely fucking it up, so don't worry about it's untimely disappearance. All is well.

Until next time.


	16. If These Walls Could Talk

XIII.

* * *

 **Damas Mancer, 13  
Applicant #12**

* * *

He doesn't remember a single thing.

It's odd. Odd, like he is. He usually has such a vast memory, is able to remember the most random of details, no matter how small.

But now there's nothing. His whole brain is a swimming pool and there's water sloshing up against the sides, unbidden. He slowly recognizes the feeling of a chair underneath him, toes brushing against the floor and then back presumably to the leg of the chair, where it rests when he finds he doesn't have the energy to move it again.

The light, when he finally cracks open his eyes, is almost a garish yellow. Like the sun is hanging from the ceiling, though that makes little sense either. It wouldn't be that color. It's nothing like the darkness of the hovercraft. The two don't even match up in the same realm.

There's someone just in front of him, a wobbly figure perched on what must be the little bit of desk in front of him. Red hair. Too bright.

"Hey, sweetheart." He knows that face. He doesn't, though.

He just recognizes it, and he's not lucky enough for it to be Harper.

Verity is to his right, shoved into a similar chair and desk. Her eyes are widening by the second, he suspects, in alarm, though she looks just as groggy as he feels. There's something shimmery-silver around her wrist, a thick band of it, and at the same time the woman in front of him reaches for the one that's on his own. He can't pull away fast enough, not before she does something to it. The little screen at the top lights up with several things; the date, June 17th. A number clear over a hundred, hovering over a series of jagged lines? His pulse? It feels like it could be that; even his fingertips are thumping, and the skin of his wrist where she's touched him.

There's two numbers in the top left corner, and he stares at them. _24/24._

"Alright, we're up and running," she says, and hops off the desk. "You can go and get her."

There are two other men at the head of the room, maybe slightly older. The one with the longer hair disappears out the door towards the right. There's only one other door, on the left wall. There's a set of windows behind them, too, shut tight. Outside, only the desert. Some buildings. Like the land that surrounded the facility, but obviously not.

Everyone else is here too, in identical chairs and desks and bracelets. All twenty-four of them.

 _24/24_.

There's nothing stopping them from getting up. He should. Maybe he could run. From what, he's not sure, but it's not good. His brain is telling him that much.

But no one else is. There was something exchanged while he was still out of it, while everyone else was waiting for him to wake up. Don't move, or else. He doesn't want to know what else could happen, besides what already has.

There are footsteps coming back towards the door, easily more than just the returning man. He doesn't have anything, except the weight of the tarot cards he can still feel in his pocket. Everything else is gone, and judging by everyone else's abrupt stillness they're in similar states.

His head is still foggy - he shakes himself, once, twice, and tries to clear it.

The door opens during his hasty attempt at clearing some of the blur in his eyes, blinking a few times to try and chase it away. Beside him, Verity makes an awful, choked little noise and her bracelet clacks against the table-top as her fingers lock around the edge of the rough wooden surface. Any harder and she'll break it, get some splinters for her troubles.

He shakes his head again, so that the number of figures that has since doubled at the front of the room become a little clearer, snap into focus.

Three more women, and then a fourth. Two more men as well. That's nine.

Nine is a troublesome number in this country.

But it's not just nine, unfortunately for them. It doesn't immediately click or find a connection, his poor brain, between what he's seeing and behind the noise that came out of Verity's mouth. He doesn't recognize any of them, not really. Even the last one that comes in, blonde as can be, isn't necessarily familiar. But there's something there itching in the back of his mind, a sense of familiarity. She stands there like a marble statue even in the sickly yellow light, not fitting in with the rest.

"Oh, fuck me," someone behind him says, but he doesn't turn around. Doesn't turn, because it finally _clicks_.

It's no wonder he didn't recognize her. It's not like he ever saw her in person, only on old newsreels and tapes that are already started to be considered historical, only nine years past.

This is the reason his brother died, standing before him. Not a an illusion, some sort of hologram. A living, breathing almost-statue, looking them over like she has all the time in the world.

Though he's beginning to realize they may not.

Verity is shaking. He's not sure if it's fear, anger, or confusion. A warring combination of all three, if he was a betting man.

But he's not. He never has been. Some days he wonders why he even trusts the cards with his fate, if they couldn't warn him about what was to come.

He thinks Old Man Red was right, about all of this.

"So," Carnelia Trevall says, leisurely. Casually. "You ready to listen?"

* * *

 **Jupiter Valentine, 18  
Applicant #9**

* * *

Beside them, Mal stands up.

They nearly throw up at how quickly he does it, because by the time he's on his feet they haven't even thought about what they'd do, if someone else around them moved. Of course it's Mal, though. They should have seen it coming.

"Sit down," they hiss, because Carnelia Trevall is staring at him like she's going to chop him into pieces and then put the bits under a microscope, and there's no words for how much they don't want that to happen.

Behind Mal, Tarquin grabs the back of his shirt, but he stays resolutely standing, pulling back against the grip.

" _Mal_ ," they plead, and finally his eyes flicker down to theirs, and Tarquin yanks him back down into his chair with a thud. He shrugs the hand off as soon as he's seated once again, leaning forward into his chair.

Carnelia smiles. "Well, now that that's over."

She slaps a paper down on the first desk she can reach, Noelani's, and Noelani flinches away from her hand, squeezing back into her chair.

"If you'd so care to look that over, it would be appreciated. Oren put a lot of work into averaging out that data."

Noelani snatches up the paper as soon as Carnelia retreats, holding it to her chest, only glancing down at it for half-seconds at a time. They don't even want to imagine what's going on there.

"So, what is it?" Mal asks, and if they had the reach they'd slide over and slap their hand over his mouth, if only to get him to shut up.

"What your fellow applicants think of you," Carnelia says. She leans over Noelani again, who must be sucking up every inch of willpower in the world to not fall out of her chair. "Gideon Mallory, number twenty-two. Not so good."

Well, Jupiter certainly didn't rank him that far down, but as much as it stings to admit they see why. He didn't exactly make a go at friendship with anyone other than them, at least not one that lasted.

"You can pass that around," she tells Noelani, who looks like she'd rather die than do just that. "Everyone else can listen. This is how this is going to go. The bracelet you're wearing now is implemented with a tracker, as well as sensors to monitor your pulse and vitals. Everything will be recorded on it and sent back to us, if we so need the information."

They never thought they would say it, but they almost wish they were back in the hospital.

"You're in an area just over fourteen-thousand square feet. You may know it as Death Valley. There are no active cities or communities within these boundaries. If you approach these boundaries looking for help—"

Their breakfast is about two seconds from coming up. Mal looks at them.

 _Breathe_ , he mouths, and they inhale, hold it for a few seconds, let it out again. It doesn't do much to help.

"Listen, whatever you're trying to make us do," Myra starts.

"I'm not going to _make_ you do anything," Carnelia interrupts. "You're going to do it yourselves. If you don't, you'll die at my hand. Would you rather someone sitting at your side kill you, or me?"

 _It's the Hunger Games_ , their brain is saying, but this is worse. This is so much worse. How many people did Carnelia Trevall kill, nine years ago and before that? Dozens? Hundreds?

And they're next.

"If that's not enough incentive, consider this," she continues. "Meliodas Vergara - your mother is currently on assignment just outside of Eleven, near Calhoun. Taking photographs of the community they're building there. Should we stay with you all, or pay her a visit?"

Two seats behind them, he goes whiter than what she thought was possible. All the blood drains out of his face.

"Meris Loucare, your brother left for work an hour and seventeen minutes ago. How does an accident at the construction site sound to you?"

This isn't happening. It's not. If they close their eyes...

"Jupiter Valentine, your parents made reservations at a local restaurant for tomorrow night, just after your scheduled arrival back home. What do you think they'll do, when you don't show up?"

They're not going to show up. They're not here. They're anywhere but here.

"There are _so many_ people out there I could kill instead of you," Carnelia says. "But the fact of the matter is, you're the prize. The children of the place that turned us all into monsters. They created monsters without wondering what would happen if they let them run wild instead of slaying them. I think it's about time we showed them."

The price they pay, for the past's sins. They hardly even watched the Games. They were confined to their room, and they never liked to show them in the children's ward. It was the one place the government didn't care to taint with their games.

"I'll give you an hour," she offers. "We'll leave, you can take off. But after that it's fair game. Go after each other, or we'll kill you instead. Look for help, and we'll kill you. There's only one way this ends and I think I've made it obvious enough."

Who knew about this, they want to ask. They want to scream it. Did the Instructors let them go knowing this would happen? Someone had to have known.

But that someone isn't here now, if they exist at all. That someone isn't going to save them.

Now, it's just them, and who will be left when it's all over.

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17  
Applicant #10**

* * *

No one moves. Not them, not the people standing at the front of the room.

And certainly not Carnelia.

Someone has frozen his veins, certainly, or he'd be crying. Just hysterically crying for no reason at all. Maybe at the irony of it all - great job, Estella, signing him up for his own death.

But she didn't know, _she didn't know_ , she only wanted him to be happy.

And look where that's got him.

"If you go after our families..."

"If I go after your families, what?"

He closes his eyes. He's fine, still breathing. Estella's not. Most of the people in this room might not be, sometime soon.

He doesn't even care about his parents. Hasn't seen them in months, has stilted, awkward conversations with them when he calls. Someone here probably doesn't even have parents, siblings. The threat still feels so real, so world-shattering. Like she's capable of it, maybe.

He takes a deep breath, opens his eyes. "You can't. You wouldn't. The last time you went after this many people, you went off the grid for nine years. They won't let you live again. They won't—"

"You're alone out here, last I recalled," another one of the women says. "You'll be lucky if they ever find out the truth of what happened to you beyond what we feed them. I'll glorify it for you, if that's what you want."

"It's easier to get away with things than you think," Carnelia says. "Why don't we discuss that, hm? Two of you were hospitalized last year and both lived, if you call that getting away with it. Sabre Hennedige was checked in by his father after he fainted two times in three days - listed officially as severe dehydration and malnutrition, but we can all take a stab at what that means. And Damas Mancer, though nothing officially came of it. The report said you only attempted to harm yourself at home, not that you actually went through with it. And they certainly couldn't admit a twelve year old to a psych ward."

He's not sure who looks more awful, in that moment. Damas looks like he's waiting for a sinkhole to open up under his feet and swallow him. Sabre looks like he's already crawling into it.

"Mancer sounds familiar, too," she continues. "The last name of someone interning at the mansion when we killed everyone walking around in it. A brother, perhaps?"

This just needs to stop, all of it. They can't let this go on any longer.

But what are they supposed to _do_? Say get on with it? Let her kill them faster?

No, she's not. Well, maybe she is, but her goal is very clearly to get them to kill each other. And it's not like he hasn't thought about it, it's kind of hard not to when you're shoved into such a small space with so many people, but it's a joke. Usually.

How many people in here are joking when they have such thoughts?

"I think I can get through a few more of these," the other woman says. They're all listening to her, like she's almost as important as Carnelia is.

No one could ever be.

"Kidava Vaud was suspended three days into attending Ridgeview High for starting a fight with two classmates."

"And?" Kidava mutters flatly, shrugging too violently. Somehow, that's not very surprising. Trojan, otherwise blank and serious until this moment, smirks until Kidava reaches across the aisle and slams her foot into the leg of his table, rocking him back and forth.

This really isn't the time.

"To our knowledge both Arwen Paoul and Emmi Langlois have both been rumored to have been in school-related fights but escaped without a mark on their record."

"Oh, twins," Emmi mutters.

"For someone laughing at violence Trojan Geomantra has certainly had a fair hand in it - again, rumor is he and a friend beat a man within an inch of his life and put him in the hospital for two months, comatose."

"He had it coming," Trojan says. "Besides, who cares? Apparently it was just practice for this."

Half the room, at least, turns to look at him. Icarus is sure his eyes can't be the most shocked. Coming from Trojan, much like Kidava, he's really not all that surprised.

"What?"

God, this really isn't good. But apparently it's the perfect time.

"Your hour begins in two minutes," Carnelia says. "Consider taking a look around first, before you run and don't look back. It may serve you well when you're running to have something of use on-hand. Don't worry, though. Little one over there isn't the only one with family that I've had the pleasure of murdering. I don't play favorites."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Soran asks.

They're nearly sitting next to each other, so Icarus almost throws up when she stops right in front of Soran's desk, leaning down to look at him. They're both fucking _smiling_ , inches from each other's faces. It's up there for worst thing he's seen in the past year. Up there, but not at the top.

"I think you know exactly what that means. Everyone meet Soran Faerber, who's real surname was so thoroughly obliterated that even our searching couldn't unearth it. Your father did that - to you and your mother both. Changed your names and sent you off. Hid you. That level of scandal was unheard of for someone as important as Renatus Quinn."

His blood very quickly unfreezes. He's not sure to what, because he clams up even worse than before. Soran looks so terrifying calm, and he almost wishes that he could have even an ounce of it. Just the littlest bit...

"You're not serious," he whispers.

"Everyone, Renatus Quinn's son. Bastard son, I should say. Let's hope you don't die as easily as he did."

"Oh, she's serious," Mel says, and he just about chokes. It's a good thing he didn't eat much this morning, or it would be all over his shoes.

Of all the things to be in a room with, and this is it.

And this, all of this... this is what will be killing him, if he doesn't get them first.

* * *

Anyone in my discord server knew what the arena was back in like, January, so if you didn't... tragic.

Everything else was sort of a surprise, though! So hooray for that.

I'm in a different timezone for a bit so sorry if the timing on this and the next chap is a bit wonky. But hey, bloodbath next Sunday, am I right? Any final thoughts before the Murder? Let me know.

Until next time.


	17. Young and Menace

XIV: Bloodbath.

* * *

 **PART I: THE RECKONING**

* * *

 _We've gone way too fast for far too long,_  
 _And we were never supposed to make it half this far._  
 _And I lived so much life, lived so much life,_  
 _I think that God is gonna have to kill me twice._  
 _Kill me twice like my name was Nikki Sixx._

 _I woke up in my shoes again but somewhere you exist, singing._

 _Oops I did it again, I,_  
 _Forgot what I was losing my mind about._  
 _I only wrote this down to make you press rewind,_  
 _And send a message, "I was young and a menace."_

 _Young, young, young and a menace._

* * *

 **Soran Faerber, 18  
Applicant #8**

* * *

"God, I hate today," Trojan says flatly.

Yeah, he wants to say. _Join the fucking club._

It seems odd that Trojan of all people is against this. He's not sure why. Beating someone within an inch of their life is a lot different than killing them, and he's sure if Trojan had killed someone in the past Carnelia would have brought that up first. She definitely would have brought that up before she brought up everything she did about him.

He knew. He knew the second she started spilling everyone else's secrets that it was going to come out.

Carnelia and the others leave, and they all sit there like statues while they file out, one by one, after her. The second the door closes behind them an eerie hush settles over their heads, eyes roaming as everyone tries to figure out what's happening. It's pretty clear, at least to him, what's happening.

He's the first one to move, getting up out of the chair and heading for the door on the other side of the room. There's the scrape of a chair behind him as he gets up, but it's not until he's out the door that Kidava finally catches up to him. He looks around when she stops at his side; it's a long hallway, ending in an open-air arch that leads outside. There's a few doors. A few more branching hallways.

"What's the plan?" Kidava asks.

"I don't recall inviting you."

"You know, top two and all that," she says casually. "We'd do better together than against each other."

Most likely cause she doesn't want to end up dead again at his hands, this time for real.

"Top three," Trojan interrupts. "No way I'm staying with anyone else."

"I didn't invite you either."

"Wasn't asking, dick."

He curls and uncurls his hands, letting them go loose. No need to lose it yet. Everyone's doing enough of that back in the room.

"Take fifteen, twenty minutes tops. We need to find a way to get out of here."

"Door's right there."

"You planning on walking around in Death Valley?" he asks. "Be my fucking guest. Don't come crawling to me when you're dying of heatstroke. They told us to look around, so _look around._ Find whatever you think is going to be useful. And then we need to look for a car."

They don't want this to be a slaughter, a _proper_ bloodbath. If they wanted that they would have just killed them all in the room, or when they hijacked the hovercraft. They want the thrill of the chase like all the worst sort of soldiers, the thrill of hunting down prey and forcing them to do the worst imaginable things.

"Meet out front by then," he says. "If I find a car and you're not there, I'm leaving you here."

"Ditto," Trojan mutters, but he miraculously listens and heads off down one of the halls. Kidava chooses her own and disappears as well.

He heads for the exit.

He's serious. Very, deadly serious. There has to be a way out of here. Several ways, really, but the three of them only need to find one in order to make it work. If they didn't give them a way out of here then everyone might as well resign themselves to dying in this shabby, burned out hole of a town, wherever the hell it really is. It doesn't look like much. Just a collection of buildings sprawling down the cracked road, the weeds reaching up to his knees. The heat is like a wall, the sun at it's peak in the sky. He can't even imagine how hot it really is; he's torn between being grateful for the clothes that are saving him from the worst of it, and the heat that's already gathering and pooling underneath them.

But a road at least means there were cars here once upon a time, even if there's heat shimmering over them like a mirage, casting a wet glow across the pavement. Or at least it would, if there wasn't so much dust.

"Hey!"

He hears the voice, actively ignores it. He knows exactly who it is.

"Listen," Icarus says, grabbing at his elbow. He pulls away from it. "Listen, you are not leaving me here."

"What, Mel didn't want to put up with you either?"

"He's already gone, I didn't see what way he went."

Well, there's no sign of him on the road, so presumably the _other way_ but he doesn't think Icarus cares. He himself probably should have at least picked someone he vaguely liked, because Trojan and Kidava weren't even on the top of it.

Hell, he doesn't even know who is. He knows Icarus shouldn't even be on it.

And yet he's here, for some reason. Of course he is.

"If you find a car—"

"I can't drive, what am I going to do with a car?"

"Jesus Christ," he mutters. "If you find a car, tell me."

He continues on between the next set of buildings; it's too fucking hot to wander around down the middle of the road looking for things that may not even exist. Icarus is close behind him, looking every which way. At least he looks determined to find something, even if he's standing five feet too close and not doing anything of actual importance.

It doesn't take long to find a building resembling a garage, the side door wedged open with a stack of rust-red bricks. It's dark inside, a relief from the glaring sun, and there's a hard scrape as Icarus hefts one of the bricks up, brandishing it like he's going to do something with it.

As if.

And sure enough, there's a car tucked into the back corner, half covered by a sheet that looks more yellow than white.

"What makes you think it's going to work?" Icarus asks.

He ignores that one. He doesn't have the time to explain that to someone who's just going to argue with him. He wedges his arm through the gap in the window and reaches for the lock. It sticks for a moment before it pops free and he wrenches open the door.

There are cobwebs stuck to the corners, a fine layer of dust settled over the exposed space, but he can see the faintest bits where it's not as heavy, where there are fingerprints indented into the dust sticking to the steering wheel.

Someone's been in here, moving through the stale air that faintly reeks of fresh gas.

Soran pulls open the visor and a set of keys come tumbling into his lap. They look old, older than anything that should be usable, but coincidences aren't set up perfectly here. Things won't just happen to happen.

"That's good," Icarus manages.

"Whatever else you can find, grab it. Something other than a brick, water, food, gas—"

"Why the hell are they doing this?" he mutters, although he sets off to the closest wall, rummaging through whatever's on the bench. He waves a rather small wrench over his head - Soran waits for it to come down and strike him in the temple.

"Like killing us, okay, kinda get that as offensive as it is, but giving us supplies and shit—"

"And I thought you talked a lot at the facility," Soran says. "Hurry up, we need to go get the others."

Icarus opens his mouth, so Soran throws the first thing in his reach at him, a handful of bolts that he fumbles for off the table. They ping rhythmically off his back as he turns around to avoid the worst of them, the ones that miss tinkering to the ground around him.

He shuts up after that. Soran grabs a few more and shoves them in his pockets for later.

He can still smell the gas, the scent only getting stronger as he heads for the back wall, and sure enough tucked away in the shadows he finds two full gas cans, capped and ready to go. He dumps them in the back of the car along with a hammer and a length of pipe, the latter of which he tucks into the empty cavern where the spare tire should be. You never know. He doesn't really want to know with Kidava and Trojan.

Icarus has collected three water bottles, and if the color is a little off he's going to keep his mouth shut. Three already isn't enough; he'll take what he can get.

"Hide those," he instructs.

"I never said they were yours."

"Fine, then stay here. You're not getting in the car."

Icarus levels him with a look as he climbs back in the car. He nearly reaches over to push the lock down but Icarus doesn't pay any mind, letting him lock the passenger side only to clamber in the back. He shoves all three bottles under the seat, tucking them away.

Soran turns the key and prays for what has to be the first time in his life. The whole car groans, shaking furiously underneath him. He presses his foot down on the gas inch by inch and for a long moment it only creaks, a wheeze that grows louder and louder the more he pushes it. Finally it starts with a particularly ugly rumble, but it starts.

He'll take it.

"So," Icarus says, leaning forward. He's really going to get it doing this all the time. "A Quinn, huh?"

He sighs. "Shut up."

* * *

 **Jupiter Valens, 14  
Applicant #16**

* * *

His brain is just kind of... wailing.

It's a very odd sort of sound. Not one his brain has ever made before. He's sure he's made it out-loud before, like when Colin Delacourt kneed him in the stomach during football tryouts, but never quite like this.

That time he ended up on the field like his guts were hanging out of his stomach. Now he's just sort of sitting here.

To be clear, it's not like he still wants to be uselessly sitting here. That's just what his body has chosen to do, a coping method for what surely can't actually be happening. They're not all going to die. That's just silly, the silliest thing he's ever heard. They would have just killed them, right? Not forced them into _this_.

But very few people are left in the room. Most of them have taken off. If he doesn't move soon he's going to be the last one here, and then what?

 _And then what?_

He just needs to calm down and think of something. First things first he needs to get out of the room. That sounds like a good idea. See what his surroundings are, figure out the best direction to go. As soon as he does that he can take a long around, see if he has the time to look around, maybe grab a thing or two.

Right, he can do this. He can do this, definitely.

First things first - he tugs at the bracelet around his wrist, trying to wriggle free. It's more like a cuff. Feels like it too. There are odd metal bits digging into his skin, poking painfully into the spaces where his bones just out. If only he was a bit bigger, more muscular. No one else seemed to be having this problem.

The screen is flashing a very high number, nearly into the 120's. If that's supposed to go along with the line that's monitoring his pulse, he's screwed.

Is this what dying is like? Is he having a heart attack?

"What are you _doing_? Jay!"

He hears it, boy does he hear it, but the way everyone else left in the room turns to look at him confuses him to no end. They're all looking like the words just came out of _his_ mouth, like he's calling for himself.

" _Jay!_ "

It's muffled, like underwater. Not quite. There's a sharp knock and then a thump, and when he turns around to the source of it Noelani is slamming her open fist on the window, shouting at him.

He makes his way to the window, robotic, and cracks it open. Noelani pushes it the rest of the way up and grabs his arm. His brain is still wailing, different reason now. She tugs him forward so his gut slams into the sill and then she grabs the sleeve of his shirt and pulls him through the window. He lands with a thud in the dusty ground at her feet, half on top of her shoes, trying to turn over without rolling headfirst into the thorny brush creeping up the side of the building.

"Ow," he mumbles, but she pays him little mind, if any at all. She hooks her arms under his and yanks him back to is feet.

"Toph, where are we going?"

"That way!"

He tries to turn with Noelani still with a vice grip on his arm. It's really not concern, just fear. Confused fear. She only yelled for him but that's just because he's spent so much time wrongfully pestering her.

Topher is pointing off down the road, towards the distant hills, repeatedly jabbing his figure down the road like that's going to get the point across to Tarquin, who looks just as confused as Noelani. He can't say he's surprised on that front.

"C'mon, c'mon, let's go," Noelani urges, and tugs him onto the road alongside the others. "Who knows how much longer we have left."

Hills are good, he's trying to rationalize. They can hide better than traveling along open ground. Not very good to climb in the baking sun and skin that's not nearly dark enough to handle it properly, but he'll live.

He hopes. Will he?

"Hills are good," he says aloud, like an idiot, but Noelani nods along with him like it makes sense, and it makes him feel better when she does.

"What were you going to do? Sit there until the hour was done?" she asks incredulously. She finally lets go of his arm and he stumbles after her, sneakers catching on the pavement. He can feel how hot it is through the bottom of his shoes. That's going to be a problem.

"Probably." He shrugs, and she whacks him on the arm, although her hand is still light. Feather light.

God, they're screwed. He's got her, which is admittedly nice, but not in a fight to death, Topher who even he could sling over his shoulder in a pinch, and Tarquin, who has already almost tripped face-first into the dirt over a particularly large pothole.

But this is the four of them, like old time's sake.

He can only hope it doesn't go the same way the simulation does.

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16  
** **Applicant #17**

* * *

She's trying to think of this very methodically.

If she thinks of it anyway she knows, deep down, that she'll meltdown. A full scale meltdown is not the type of computer operation she's trying to emulate.

Really, she's trying to think of this like a code. Like keying it in and watching the computer understand it. Scanning through, picking out the bits that don't work, highlighting them so that she can delete them and start over. Make something that works.

So that's what she does. She walks out of the room alone, like there was another option. No one was ever going to willingly look her way and ask her to come along; she wouldn't expect them to. She's not even sure if she would want them to.

People with no allies won the Games, way back when. Not as often as people with allies, but they did.

She gets the feeling this is more than just a simple game. To think, what they had back then was _simple_ compared to this.

It's clear that most of the obvious things in the hallway have been ransacked by the first few groups that went tearing out like the devil was on their heels, a blonde one, maybe. Maybe the devil isn't real and it's just been Carnelia Trevall all along.

But Carnelia Trevall and her gang left supplies lying around, useful things. And like she knew, most of the obvious things are gone.

There's a closed door half-blocked by two wooden chairs pointed towards the windows. Clearly untouched, or someone would have shoved the chairs out of the way. She edges it out of the way and slips in unseen, shutting the door behind her.

The first thing she sees is a bag, like the kind her mother takes for her trip down to the market. It still fits well enough over her shoulder, and looks like it can hold quite a bit. The supply closet, if it ever was that before today, is filled to the brim with things. Bottles and bottles of things, some rope, packages of dehydrated foods.

She tucks the food away at the bottom, followed by a lone bottle of water. She scoops up two other bottles well, rubbing alcohol and hydrogen peroxide. She's trying not to think of worst case scenario, but she is. If she's bleeding, God forbid if she's bleeding... it should help.

There's no bandages but there is a packet of matches. Good for fires, good for cauterizing. Burns aren't so bad. She can deal with those.

And she will be, judging by the sun and the heat. Even the closet is sweltering.

She grabs a spare bag of nails too, for no reason at all. There's nothing else sharp in here, no real weapons. Not that she needs a weapon, not that she'll ever be capable of using one.

She doesn't think. She wouldn't, not ever. Her parents wouldn't think her capable of that.

Even through the closed door voices are floating down the hall. She pokes her head into the hall but no one's appeared. Just the voices coming back from the room they all woke up in. There had hardly been anyone in there when she had finally left, just after Noelani had dragged Jay out the window. A part of her had almost hoped, expected...

Noelani hadn't even looked her way, hunched over in the corner like always. And it had stung, almost, until she reminded herself that it was better this way.

There would be less bloodshed this way, surely.

Against her better judgement, irrelevant as it may be in this moment, she slinks back down the wall. It's only Sabre and Caiman, now - Sabre is speaking in a voice louder than she thought him capable of. Not angry, never angry. Trying to reason with her?

That's what it sounds like, but she can't make much sense of it.

"Sabre," she says quietly. Quietly or not he whirls around to look at her all the same. He, much like her, is uncertain. She can see it in his eyes, all that painful confusion about what the right thing to do is, if there's a right option at all.

"Go with her," Caiman says. "I'm serious, just go, I'll be fine. I'll just until the time's up, and then—"

"They'll kill you," he says. "Nothing good is going to come of you staying."

Ria would say that, too, but what impact is her voice going to have on Caiman, who doesn't even know her. If she won't listen to Sabre, will she listen to anyone?

She taps the screen of the bracelet. Her pulse is climbing higher, steadily. It hurts to breathe, like she has to take a deep breath just to stay standing. Now isn't the time for the anxiety to come crawling up her throat, but it's appropriate in the very least. At least it knows when it's appearance is warranted.

For her, definitely, and for these two people that are still standing here. They can't have a ton of time left. Maybe half of what Carnelia said. There's not even enough time left to get out of the town, not unless they all sprint.

She's never been a sprinter. Not much of anything, really.

But she could be something, right now. The difference between Sabre's life and death, and Caiman's too. If either will listen.

Issue is, she has no idea how. She's never been someone's voice of reason, someone's logic. She's only that for herself; even her parents don't often listen to her nonsensical talks on things they will never have a hope of understanding. No one does, because she doesn't tell anyone else.

She has no idea how.

It's life or death, and she still doesn't know.

* * *

 **Caiman Mangle, 15  
Applicant #21**

* * *

Caiman takes a firm seat in a chair, one that didn't belong to her.

Sabre's eyes only widen.

"You can't stay."

"I have to." She takes a deep breath and folds her hands over her stomach. "I knew something was up. But this late... I don't believe this is really happening. They can't do something like this. It's a test, just a test. None of us have to die."

A test like the simulation, like the ranking list. She was pretty high up. Sabre and Isperia weren't, if she remembers correctly. People liked her. Not so much them.

Or maybe they just didn't bother. She didn't, with some people.

But she has an opportunity now to save them. Her suspicions have always been there, her fears. But it was too abrupt, all of it. They wouldn't do something like this. It's a mind game, that's all. She's not going to let everyone fail it, fall victim to it.

She can do this, if no one else will. She has no problems with it. She said she was suspicious, not intelligent.

"Sabre, you can go," she tells him. "It's fine. Don't worry about me."

It's not fine, but hopefully it will be soon. His eyes haven't changed, bigger than normal, widening almost comically. If he could see himself in the mirror right now she thinks he'd be angry with himself, but there's no reflections to be found in here. There's nothing to show them exactly what's going on. They just have to rely on their own intuition, a gut feeling that this can be fixed.

Someone yells for Isperia, off down the hall, and all three of them blink in surprise. Isperia most of all, even as she turns around to figure out who it is, someone Caiman can't yet see. Meliodas is the one that finally appears, giving them all a look that screams _come if you want, or I'm leaving._ He doesn't give this choice to Isperia, wise enough, but grabs her around the elbow and pulls her off, after who she must assume is Meris.

That's one person gone. Just one left to deal with.

"Sabre, I promise, I'll be fine," she insists. "Let me handle it. Stay close by, if you want. But you don't need to be here."

Sabre's eyes are flicking between her and the windows, a clear getaway. She nods, watching as something finally wins over in his brain. His feet carry him to the window in even, measured paces and he crawls out of it so quickly she almost misses him, blinks and he's gone entirely as the window clatters back into frame.

And then its just her. She takes another deep breath.

She doesn't know how long she sits there, silent except for the soft rasp of her breath and the occasional click as her bracelet hits the edge of the desk. There's a car, far off in the distance. Something louder close by. A bike, maybe. Sabre could be leaving if he found something.

Good for him, if it makes her feel better.

It's much to her shock and awe when she hears footsteps approaching, quiet footfalls that hardly echo off the floor. She waits for someone else to come storming in, an incredulous look, questions ready to pour out...

A hand reaches in, an arm. That's all she sees. The hand grabs the edge of the door and pulls it, and the shadow of whoever it was disappears as the doors slam shut, trapping her inside.

She stands up, painfully slow. "Hello?"

She doesn't hear anything, anyone. No one responds, not even an answering set of footsteps as whoever just closed the door leaves again.

No, she does hear something, actually. The soft, gentle splash of liquid hitting the floor and the harsh, awkward glugs of a bottle being emptied, struggling against the pace of the pour. Something comes leaking under the door and she edges towards it until her sandals hit the perimeter of it. It seeps over the brim, sticks to her toes.

She can smell it. Gasoline.

"Hello?" she repeats.

The whole door erupts into flames.

She squeaks, even against her better judgement, and leaps away. The fire is only just starting to seep through the cracks in the door but already there's smoke pouring through every inch of space, crawling up her nose and down her throat. She reaches for the door handle, already hot to the touch, and hisses in pain, retracting her hand. Not that way, not that way.

Caiman turns. The other door is open. There's a woman standing five feet back from it, one of the ones from before. White-blonde, smirk curled nearly up to her ears. Like a mask. That can't really be her face.

She opens the bottle in her own hands and sends it flying into the room. Caiman watches it spin over and over, more gasoline pouring out, and doesn't leap away in time to avoid the bottle as it bounces of her shin before it lands off the floor, leaving a trail of gasoline down her bare leg.

She kicks the bottle away, back towards the door, but the damage is done. She looks up in time to see why woman wave, of all things, an elegant and dainty arch to her fingers as she curls them back and forth.

And then she tosses a match in.

Caiman doesn't even get time to move.

The match bounces across the floor, awkward little hops before it finally submerges, and for one long second she actually thinks nothing's going to happen. It's against all better judgement, against everything she knows about fire and matches and what causes the worst of it. A child would know what's about to happen, even though that's exactly what she feels like right now. That's exactly what she is.

It spreads across the floor like a wave, like the sun set the ocean on fire. Worse, like a tidal wave, something nobody could tackle without falling into the deep.

She jumps away, first back into the door, growing hotter by the second, and then back towards the desk, but it moves after her. Catches on her gasoline-wet footprints and stalks after her like a person would. Her leg catches one of the table legs and that goes up too, like kindling, like the biggest fire you could imagine.

Like the one she had last summer with her parents in the backyard, fingers sticky with marshmallows, graham crackers crumbling into her lap. She could hear her mother's laugh, see her father's content smile as the bonfire reflected back off his lenses, right into her eyes.

The fire spreads over the flat of her shoe, up the straps around her ankle, and she screams. It seeps into the skin there, takes a hold. She feels every second of her skin crackling and burning before she collapses, trying to slap it out, fan it away. Trying to do anything that will make it stop.

Her back hits the ground - she feels gasoline seep into the back of her shorts, her shirt.

She sees the wave coming for her, and for a second it almost looks beautiful.

Almost.

* * *

 **Gideon Mallory, 16  
Applicant #20**

* * *

All he can hear is screaming.

He had blocked out the sounds of the fire. There had been a fire in Seven, once, at one of the paper mills. He remembered the screaming from that, too, even far away. His father had gone running for it, his mother yelling after him. _You're a pediatrician, not a first responder_. _This isn't your thing to fix._

It was. Everything was his father's to fix, especially kids that weren't him.

Fire always seemed too big. Too terrifying. And the screaming had been so small, for some reason. Shrill like a little flock of birds, but all the birds had flown off away from the smoke, leaving the people to burn.

He's not sure when the screaming finally stops, but the smoke pouring from their starting position doesn't. It climbs higher, higher, billowing off into the too-bright sky. It's seeping from the windows, from the holes it must be scorching in the ceiling. Jupiter's grip on his sleeve is about to rip holes in it too, nails pricking into his skin even through the fabric.

His brain is telling him to move. He looks down at the bracelet instead, watching. Waiting.

Jupiter's hand tightens even more. The little number in the top corner flicks from a bold, yet sort-of hopeful twenty-four, to a very stark twenty-three.

"This isn't happening," Jupiter breathes. "It's not, it's—"

It is, he wants to yell, but yelling's not going to get either of them anywhere, and he doesn't think they'll respond well to getting yelled at. It's not at them, anyway. Just the whole situation, and how much it sucks.

There's no way they're just being screwed with, now. Someone's dead.

"Just keep your eye out for something useful," he instructs. "Anything, I don't care what it is. If it's a weapon tell me, I'll take it."

Anyone else would be offended, suspicious at his intentions. Jupiter just nods their head frantically and accepts their fate as he pulls them further down the side of the road. There's nothing, not that he can see. So many people got out further than them first, all because they stopped to watch. Why did he let them stop to watch when he knew what was going to happen before it did?

He's more than strong enough to pull Jupiter after him, too, but he didn't force them to start walking when they looked for the source of the fire, the screaming.

He had watched, like it was a movie. Like they all used to watch the Games.

Turns out the Games were much easier to watch when they were through a screen, not standing here with the desert dust stinging his eyes, the sun setting fire to his scalp. Of course it would be easier that way, easier to be back then. Easier for Jupiter to be back in the hospital, as awful as it sounds. At least there was only one thing actively trying to kill them then, and it was inside them all along.

He hears the car coming from at least a mile off and drags Jupiter further away from the road, towards the first building he sees, but they fight him. He's almost convinced the person he's holding onto has been charading as Jupiter this whole time at the first sign of resistance, as they pull their arm out of his group and go running back to the road.

The car nearly hits them. They stumble backwards, further into the scrubby grass, and he grabs them between the shoulders and pulls them further back once again.

It's a lucky break, if you could call it that. Myra leans out of the driver's side window, frowning as they come to a stop.

"Vehicular manslaughter, nice," Myra says flatly. "Not interested in that yet."

Yet. It's like Jupiter saw this coming, knew who it would be. Myra and Jahaira, Emmi and Arwen. He should've seen it coming too, an obvious grouping like some of the others.

Arwen leans out of the back, dangling a baseball bat between her fingers. "Want this?"

He almost leaps forward to grab it. Almost. He stops himself, digging his feet further into the dirt, a blatant refusal. He doesn't need it. There are other options than groveling to these people. It's Jupiter that starts forward, pulling it out of Arwen's hands and then forcing it back against his chest when he stays standing still, his own pride keeping him from moving.

"Mal, c'mon," they plead. Arwen's popped the door open - an invitation. Safety in numbers, except he didn't want that. Numbers are bad, too, and he doesn't need anyone else to protect him, let alone these five people who have very little allegiance to him. Jupiter's the only one who would think twice about hurting him. Think multiple times about that, really.

"Mal," they repeat, practically begging. He plants a hand between their shoulder places and forces them into the car, watching them clamber up and over the seat's edge before he does so himself, slamming the door shut behind them. It's cramped in here with four of them in the back, and Jupiter is practically sitting half on top of them, but they're small. Fragile.

Breakable, but he hopes not.

"Alright, family, we're out of here," Myra says, edging the car back onto the road. He wedges the baseball bat between his knees, forcing it still.

They drive past all the smoke, down the road. The fire is spreading through the building, down the hall they ran out of in the first place. He holds his breath, letting the smoke sting his nose like the sun is already doing to his skin.

Someone's dead already in there, whatever's left of them, if anything at all.

But not them. Not now. Not yet.

* * *

 **Percius Marigold, 17  
Applicant #2**

* * *

Listen, he's perfectly aware that now isn't the perfect time to be on the verge of a panic attack.

Sue him, alright? He'll be shocked if he's the only one.

"Calm down, it's alright," Nic says, for at least the sixth time now. It'd be so much easier to believe if Nic himself didn't sound like he was about to keel over and die on the road in front of Percy, killed or not.

"This is not alright," he repeats for the sixth time.

Not that he ever thought about being in a situation like this, but it doesn't make much sense that he's the one panicking whereas Nicator isn't. He's so kind, worries about everyone and everything, and Percy would expect him to break down sobbing right now, but he isn't.

Maybe that's because if he breaks down crying, Percy is going to break down crying. Neither of them get anywhere that way. They certainly don't survive, like the person who created the first dent in that picture-perfect twenty-four out of twenty-four. Twenty-three now.

"I think I'm gonna throw up," he informs him, but doesn't. He can taste bile at the back of his throat but nothing will come up; why won't anything come up?

It might feel a tad more human if he threw up, if something would happen that seemed slightly more _realistic_.

Nic's holding his hand and not helping at all. He'd be freaking out _normally_ if Nic was holding his hand, like always, and this situation isn't making any better. Now he's holding his hand and probably about to die, for christ's sake. He did not sign up for this. He signed up for getting home and going on a first date like every other normal teenager in the world.

He hears something in the distance, tires against sand and concrete. Nic stops so suddenly he bumps into his back, clutching onto his shoulders.

"Where the hell are we going?" he asks. _Besides in circles_.

"Okay, listen," Nic says slowly. "Clearly there are vehicles... or an ATV, or something. We can get out of here faster if we find one. The time's probably almost up."

"The time probably _is up_ ," he hisses. "We've been wandering around for-fucking-ever, doing nothing of any actual importance. Jesus Christ, we're going to die."

Nic whirls around. Suddenly there are hands framing his face, forcing his mouth shut. "Percy, listen to me."

He almost shakes his head. Almost, but doesn't. Nic doesn't deserve that.

"Listen," he repeats. "We're going to be fine. We just need to find a way to get out of here. See these buildings, right here? Go through them. _Slowly_. I'm gonna go right across the road, just right there, see? Whoever finds something first comes and gets the other. Alright?"

There's three buildings right behind them, a couple more clustered across the road. It's thirty, maybe forty feet. He's not even sure he wants Nic that far.

He blinks. "We're gonna die."

He's not sure what he expects. More chastising, for one. Maybe a slightly kind word to get him to shut his mouth and do what he's told, before one of them really does die. That's not Nic's style. Really, he's not sure what is. He's just too nice for his own good, that's what Percy's always said about him.

Maybe that's what makes Nic lean forward and kiss him, kiss a babbling, stupid idiot that's going to get them both killed. Because he's just too nice.

It does the job, though. Nic kisses him and he just _shuts up_ , goes quiet and lets it happen. It does nothing for his heart-rate, already skyrocketing through the roof. He's not sure if anything could make it calm down, least of all this. Nic pulls back, rests their foreheads together. He can see his pulse jumping in his throat and folds a hand over it, feels it thumping under his skin.

"We're fine," Nic says, though his voice is a little nervous. "Go."

They let go - it feels like a greater loss than he knows it really is. It's just five minutes, until one of them finds something and they get out of here.

He nearly trips when he turns around, legs turned to mush, but the buildings aren't far away. He hears Nic start across the road, feet catching against the cracked and brittle pavement. Little chunks of rocks are rolling away into the dirt, chasing Percy closer to the buildings.

There was no noise at all except for his own pulse in his ears, and maybe that was why the thud from behind him sounded so loud. Louder than it could possibly be. He hears the thud, a sharp intake of breath. More pebbles roll into the dirt and knock into his feet, a little stream of them.

When he turns, Nic is falling.

He hears the distant crack before Nic hits the ground, before his knees make contact with the pavement. Like a swell, over and over, echoing over the hills and all the way down the road.

 _Gunshot_ , his brain is telling him. It sounds just like the movies.

But what they never described in the movies was the after. That second as the silence returns. The second as he sees all the blood, the figure all the way up the road, hundreds of yards away, something slim and dark in their hands. _Gunshot,_ his brain says again, but it doesn't register. Nothing does except the body in the road ten feet away from him, leaking blood out the mouth and ears, through the hole in its head.

It's a body. It's not Nic. Nic doesn't have a hole in his head.

Nic... Nic doesn't have a hole in his head.

But he does now.

He hears it in Nic's voice, this time. _Gunshot_. And then, _the time's probably almost up._

The figure in the distance raises the gun again. _Gunshot, gunshot, gunshot_. There's no noise this time. He dives away, in time for something to whistle over his head. Nearly falls into the blood leaking over the side of the road into the dirt. Nic's blood, hole in Nic's head, hole in Nic's head because he just got murdered in the road. His brain is singing it, almost hysterically.

Something breaks, then. He's not sure what. Something in his chest. It hurts not unlike a bone breaking. His fingers just catch in the blood spilling into the dirt, so he pulls them away.

He sees the gun raise against, distantly. No gunshot this time.

He gets to his feet and takes off.

* * *

I'll stop making Fall Out Boy relevant when I'm dead and in hell.

Blog is back up, updated with rankings, kills, alliances... you know, the gist. There's also some new friends to take a look at, if you're so inclined.

If someone/something wasn't mentioned in this chap, nothing to fear. It's all covered in the next. Let me know what you thought of this, as always. It would be appreciated as my reviews are woefully sad at the moment.

Until next time.


	18. Bullet Alley

XV: Day One, Afternoon.

* * *

 **Verity Alameda, 13  
Applicant #3**

* * *

She finds Damas crying, bleeding, and generally in a pretty terrible place.

She's all of those herself, minus the bleeding part. Her knee is scraped up from where she tripped down the road, but she doesn't really think that counts, not compared to whatever's going on with him.

She can't get it out of him, either. What happened. She thinks it's the shock. She saw a little bit of that look in her brother's eyes when he broke his ankle, when he couldn't put any weight on it. This is worth, though. He's bleeding from the side, maybe, or the stomach. She tries to touch it and he shies away even though it looks like it _hurts,_ bad.

"Just let me look," she pleads. "What happened? Tell me what happened."

He opens and closes his mouth again, soundless. A lot, she wishes she could laugh, like a gaping fish. One that's lying on the sand, dying, struggling for breath...

It's suddenly not so funny anymore.

There's another gunshot, outside. There's been a lot of them. Is that it, then? Is there a bullet inside him right now and he just won't tell her?

"It— It hurts," he chokes, finally, clutching at his side. "It _hurts._ "

"Okay, okay," she breathes. "Take it easy, just sit down."

He leans up against the wall of their little shack, sliding down to the ground, blood pooling between his fingers. It's soaking through his shirt. There's a lot of it, but not too much, she doesn't think. Not enough to kill him. Maybe that's just her optimism talking, in the desert in this little rundown shack with a hole through it's roof, like the sun is beaming right through.

Her optimism hasn't done anything for the two people that are already apparently gone.

"Two of them," Damas says. "Two of— two of the guys. One distracted me, the other one had the gun. From far away. I don't think he meant to kill me."

"If he wanted to kill you, you'd be dead," she says through gritted teeth, trying to pull his fingers away. He only clamps them down tighter. At least he's keeping the bloodflow to a minimum, stemming the worst of it. It very well be keeping him alive, though it's not doing him any favors to keep her away from it. Someone will have to, eventually. It's that or it only gets worse. To be honest, she's not even sure she wants to look - it's just the fear in Damas' eyes that is keeping her capable of caring instead of running in the opposite direction.

She looks towards the door at the sound of another gunshot and he latches onto her arm, leaving a bloody handprint that seeps into her sleeve.

"Don't go anywhere," he begs. "Please, please don't."

"I wasn't going to," she assures him, and begins tugging her sweater off. _Don't need a sweater in the desert_ , she wants to laugh, but Damas wouldn't find it funny. She was just prepping for back home, for the slight chill that's already in the air. She didn't think a simple tee would be enough, but here she is.

It's enough now.

She presses the bulkiest part of the fabric up against his side and torso and then ties the sleeves around his opposite side as tight as she can despite how badly her hands are shaking. Only then does he remove his hands, exhaling shakily. She tightens the knot again. "Good?"

He nods, though she doesn't trust his judgement. She wedges her hands in, feels for any sort of give, but the sweater stays put. She'll have to check it, so long as they're moving. They'll probably be moving a lot.

She tugs Damas to his feet. Quick and gentle aren't two words usually associated with one another but she tries, so help her God she tries, at least for his sake. He presses his lips together, keeps silent as she pulls him up, and then clings to her waist once he's standing. His eyes are still wide, unfocused, occasionally looking down at the blood on his shirt like he's almost confused.

The door in the little shack crashes open, and she nearly screams. She grabs back at Damas as she stumbles, nearly sending him back to the ground. Whoever it is is a whirlwind, not unlike a hurricane. They nearly fall once they get in and again when they reach back to slam the door shut, collapsing against it.

"Percy?" she asks, and only then does he really seem to notice the two of them standing there. His hand fumbles back against the door but he stays there.

Better in here with the two of them that outside in bullet alley.

He's gaping, almost like Damas was but it's somehow... worse? He's breathing in and out, rapidly, but it doesn't look like any of the air is doing any good. Certainly none of it's reaching any of the important bits he's exhaling so quickly after he breathes in. That's not how the human body works, she's sure, but that's what it's look like. He's trembling like a leaf, and if Damas' fingers on her waist are shaking then Percy is about to come apart at the seams.

He's unharmed. A little dusty, but who's not, at this point?

"Percy?" she repeats. His eyes are filled with tears, she notices, and only then do a few spill out, rolling down and wobbling off the edges of his cheeks. "Where's Nic?"

They were together. Of course they were together, that's how it would go no matter what the situation was. He opens his mouth again, whatever words held in the back of his throat clogging up there, and he presses a hand against his chest.

"Breathe," she says, and he shakes his head. That's not a good thing to ignore. He's still crying. That's worse than Damas' now dried-up tears, too. It doesn't really look like he's able to stop.

Her optimism up until now had been quick, fleeting. At least it was there.

Right there in that moment it shatters and falls apart.

"No," Damas whispers. "No, God no."

"Yeah," she answers, barely audible. It doesn't feel like enough of a word. Nic is... no, he can't be. Someone as good as him can't be dead. It's not right. That's not how the world works, not anymore. They ended that nine years ago.

The little twenty-two on her bracelet is saying otherwise, though. Two people are dead, and Nicator is one of them.

She swallows back the lump in her throat, blinks back the tears. She's the only one who isn't, and that's the way it needs to stay.

"We need to get out of here," she decides. "The longer we stay here, the harder it will be to get away."

Damas is nodding. Damas is also crying again, but this time it's silent. Silent is sometimes better, but it doesn't feel like it is now. Percy's not as silent, though she can't say she blames him. If Nicator really is dead, and it's looking more likely by the second, then it's justified. He can cry as long as he likes.

"Percy," she says, giving him time to look up. "Will you help us? Will you come with us?"

Getting Percy to help with this will make her life a hell of a lot easier. If not she'll have to drag Damas out, watch for the Sentinels, and figure out where she can go that won't end with one of them getting shot all on her own.

Again. She didn't ask to be alone. In fact, she'd rather not be.

Percy scrubs his hands over his face, smearing away the mess of tears that have gathered across his cheeks. They're still coming, there's no stopping them. He's trying, and that's what counts. She holds her breath, sucks in what feels like all the air in this little shack so quickly her chest aches. There's no doubt that Damas can feel how tense she is, and his own hands tighten in response.

"Where do you wanna go?" he asks finally, voice cracking in the middle. It's awful, hearing that. Like the normal loud, rambunctious him is falling apart before her eyes.

She didn't want to pick where to go, either. But right now she has to. Neither of them are in the condition to do it.

And if she has to step up, if she has to be the one to do it... then so be it.

* * *

 **Meliodas Vergara, 18  
Applicant #18**

* * *

"Stop moving," Meris orders, so he tries.

He really tries, but Ria is five foot nothing and Meris is at least managing to make herself look small, crouched behind a half torn down wall and a particularly thorny bush that's jabbing him in the spine. They got all the good space. He took the bad stuff.

Which is good, at least. If Ria was getting jabbed with thorns she'd probably just leave, the same way she already wants to.

He hadn't really given her much of a choice. He had practically carried her down the steps at the back of the building after Meris until she had stopped putting up a very lackluster fight, and then put her down when he was satisfied she was stuck with them.

They can see someone in front of them, far off. Way too far to even tell who it is.

He doesn't really care who it is, if he's being honest. They can't go back; it's much too far, and besides, why risk the other several Sentinels probably wandering around when there's only one they can see in front of them?

"Think we should beat them up?" he murmurs, and Meris sighs.

"You're welcome to. We'll be here. Have fun when they spot you from a mile away."

Tall, gangly, wearing a blue sweatshirt to boot - she's probably right. It's no different than Ria's hair, though. He reaches forward and tugs the hood of her sweater over her head, concealing it. At least it's one less thing to worry about. He still feels the urge to nudge her even further behind the wall, even though no one can see her anyway. He doesn't need to take care of her. She found more supplies than they did.

In fact, they found practically nothing, and it terrifies him. They're not going to last long in the desert with hardly any water and no food. Ria has to have something besides the odd assortment of items that he can see in the bag over her shoulder, but if she does she's not telling him.

He can't imagine her withholding food and water from them.

He's hoping he won't have to.

He lowers his head again. "If one of us distracts them—"

"Are you volunteering?" Meris asks. "My plan was for none of us to die today, not that."

He could laugh at that, normally. What a simple goal to have, one that seems so large now when two other people have apparently decided to take dirt naps today. He doesn't want to imagine who. He can't imagine who. He doesn't want to, or else the confidence he's displaying now will fall apart.

It could be someone he was close to, someone he had dozens of conversations with.

Someone who's number he had in his phone, for after. They don't have an after now.

Ria's not even watching the person in front of them. She's looking off in the distance to their left, hunched over. She keeps shuffling her feet, so he waits for her to run. He'd catch her, if he didn't get shot in the back for his troubles.

"What?" he asks. "You wanna go that way?"

When she turns she actually looks him in the eyes. He considers that progress. "There's no one that way. The hills aren't that big, but the cliffs are steep. They won't go to so much trouble to follow people into them right off the bat."

His plans are idiotic, will get him killed - Ria is actually _thinking_.

"Did anyone else go that way?"

"Just a car, I think. With some of the girls. I'm not sure, but I think—"

"No, that's what I think, too," he assures her. Better not to let her doubt herself now. Most of the girls, and he thinks Jupiter and Mal went with them. The entirety of that group, except for Meris.

"There's a few buildings that way, too," Ria points out. "There might be something in them if no one's walked that way yet."

It's a good goddamn thing he went back to check the room in the first place, or else him and Meris would be sitting here in the dirt for another six hours until nightfall, until the Sentinels finally gave up and moved further out. He looks to Meris, who shrugs. Even she's looking off the way Ria has suggested, now, someone who didn't seem so eager to have her join them.

But they really, really need the brains. Meris is smart, he'll give her that, but she's no Einstein.

"Why not," she mutters. "Stay low until we cross the road, keep one eye on that person up the road. Ria, if you can watch the right—"

She nods, quickly. Her eyes are already flitting in every direction anyway; Ria won't miss anyone coming. She's too smart for it.

Meris goes crawling through the dirt behind the wall, staying just below it. He nudges Ria, gently, until she starts to follow.

"Do you want me to take the bag?" he asks, creeping along behind her. It doesn't look all that heavy, but she's small, and it slips down her shoulders every time she inches forward. He expects it, but still frowns when she shakes her head, clutching it closer. What he thinks are random supplies are probably very important to her, kept close to her chest for safe-keeping.

"Well, if it gets too heavy, I can take it."

"Thanks," she murmurs, and he smiles. Shouldn't be smiling right now, but he does. To be honest, he doesn't think he'd trust this girl on her own. All the silence is good, it keeps herself safe, but does it do any good for the rest of them?

What is that they say, about keeping watch on the quiet ones?

Well, he is. And he's certainly glad to have her for an ally, right about now.

* * *

 **Faye Ackerman, 12  
Applicant #7**

* * *

As Esma would so eloquently say, this is bullshit.

Of course she's flashing back to her sister right now. Her sister who wanted to be accepted more than anything, who would've been in her place right now had their positions been reversed. Esma would be the one in the death match, Sentinels hot on her heels.

And no matter how much her and her sister disagree, she would never wish that on her.

She'd never wish that on anyone, except for all of the people who left her, maybe.

Every single person abandoned her. Verity lost her, darting in-between all the buildings, like it was on purpose. Everyone else already had a little group of their own and hadn't looked so keen to let her within their ranks.

And that's how she ends up alone, in this scrubby, desert town, wondering what the hell to do next. And Faye does not usually have to _wonder_ , not about anything. That's not how it works for her. Either she does things so thoroughly that the answers all but fall into her lap, or she's just graced with them without trying at all. That's how it works, the world.

But this is a different world, out of here. Something that none of them ever planned on living in, running in, dying in.

She's absolutely not dying today, or any day from here on out.

So she has a plan. That plan mostly rides on her finding anyone else that may be left here, if she can. It'll be easier to get out of here with someone else, whether it means throwing them under the bus or using them to help her out of here. She doesn't want to do that to anyone, use them to further her own survival. That's not how most allies worked, she doesn't think. Maybe the Careers... but is she really a Career? Not even close. No one would consider her one - brains alone didn't get you chosen to volunteer.

She's not sure exactly what it is she hears. Something dragging through the sand, an awkward sound. The awkward sound of something clicking together, like a chain.

None of the Sentinels would be making that much noise, that she's sure of. It's the one thing keeping her calm. This is another one of the applicants, surely, one of the few people stupid enough to still be lingering around.

She pauses behind the beginning of a metal fence, ducking into the brush. She sees it first - the motorbike, out in the open, and then a shadow disappearing away from it, headed back towards the buildings. The wheels are dug awkwardly into the sand, stuck. Maybe it's out of gas. That would explain why the person who found it hasn't left yet.

Her first instinct is to run out there and take it, push it away before whoever it is comes back, but what good is that going to do, if there's no gas? It won't get her anywhere, and then she'll have some furious person or other on her tail, angry at her for stealing their stuff.

The shadow disappears, put the person still has to be close. She stands up, trying to get a better look at them, and they turn at the same time she does, like her feet shifted too loudly in the sand, like her presence cast itself all the way over to them.

Sabre turns and looks at her. She stays very still, watching. He looks confused, a little lost. It's an odd juxtaposition to how she feels, driven, with a purpose.

He looks at the bike, and then back to her.

"I'm not going to steal it, if that's what you think," she says.

"There's gas back in the building. You wouldn't get far with it."

If there's gas back in the building, why hasn't he left yet? It's like he's asking for it, wandering around in circles to tempt fate.

She clambers over the fence and he tenses. She's reminded of what happened in the simulation, of what she did to him.

"Don't worry, there's no explosive mines around here to make you fall into."

"That's a relief."

If she's being honest with herself, he looks a little distraught, and not at his current situation. At something else that she can't place, something she wasn't privy to. One of the deaths, maybe. She's not letting herself think about that.

"What are you waiting for?" she asks, trying to shake off the sudden awkwardness. "Go get the gas."

He backs up towards the building, keeping an eye on her. She inches a little closer to the bike. It looks like it's in working condition, not that she's ever ridden one before. Everything looks intact. Finally she gets close enough to unscrew the already loose gas cap, peering inside. It doesn't look like there's anything in it. It's certainly not big enough to hold much.

Sabre returns holding two gas cans with a small bag over one shoulder, eyeing her and her proximity to the bike, no doubt.

"Do you know how to drive one of these?" she asks.

"No. Do you?"

She shrugs. "Can't be any different than riding a bike."

An electric bike that needs gas, obviously, but it can't be that different. Only issue is it's big, as big as she is. For her to get it started first she'd need legs long enough to reach the gas pedal, and she doesn't think hers are going to cut it.

"Are you... coming with me?" he asks slowly, avoiding her eyes.

"Do you want me to?"

She doesn't want to ask. The words feel like glass coming out. But she knows the best way to get Sabre into agreeing with this is to grovel, to stray as far away from the girl who killed him in the simulation as she can. Yelling, insisting he hurry up, cracking a few awkward, terrible jokes - none of that will help. Anyone else, maybe. But not him.

He offers her the backpack, carefully, not so much as touching her, and then gives her the other gas can. She sets to work on shoving it inside, along with the two water bottles at the bottom. Water is good. Food they'll just have to worry about later.

It's a tight fit, but that's alright. At least they'll have gas for later. She keeps her head down, focused on the zipper, instead of looking up to worry about what it is Sabre is doing. The sounds of the gas hitting the empty gas tank seem too loud, but no one else even appears to be close. That, or they won't risk it. She just had to, in order to get out of here, or give her the best chance of surviving.

Sabre shakes the last few drops out. A few patter into the sand at her feet and she scuffs her flats through them, wiping them away.

He wedges the stand up and gets on the bike, testing out the balance. She knows he's more than capable of doing it.

"It won't be as hard as it looks," she says. "We can go slow."

They absolutely cannot go slow. They need to get the hell out of here.

She doesn't tell him that. Like she said, it wouldn't help. Just because she knows best here doesn't mean it will get them any further, with someone who won't listen to her controlling the bike.

She shoulders the bag and clambers on behind him, praying the bike holds steady. She's not even sure if it's properly meant for two people, or if they're both just thin enough to make it work. She wraps an arm around him, just one, and feels him tense at even just that, at the feeling of her arm around his torso, ribs digging into her own skin.

"All good?" she asks, and he nods, after a long moment in which she fears he's about to toss her off.

Sabre wouldn't, she doesn't think. He's too good, even if he doesn't realize that himself.

It doesn't matter if he's good or bad, though, because he's going to get her out of here. It doesn't matter.

She can be the bad for both of them, if need be.

* * *

 **Myra Callaghan-Alistair, 18  
Applicant #5**

* * *

It's a good thing she insisted on her Uncle helping her get her learner's the second she turned sixteen, or else they'd be in some deep shit right about now.

She's certain someone else in this car can drive, or are at least capable of it in a pinch, license or not. If someone is, no one's said anything. When they found the car no one else had stepped up to drive, not even Arwen, who she expected to tackle her to the ground for driver's privileges.

But no, she hadn't. She had just climbed into the back with Emmi, forfeiting the passenger seat to Jahaira without so much as a word.

It's odd. They get along, but there's this sort of... tenseness.

She's blaming the dead people they left behind in the starting town, and the threat of it hanging over their heads. Whoever they may be.

"Who do you think died?" Jupiter asks quietly. Coming from them that's almost a surprise, but Myra's begun to realize that not of all of society's finer cues have chosen to grace Jupiter with their presence. She can't say she really blames them. She wouldn't have many either if she spent most of her childhood in a hospital bed, wondering if she was about to die.

"Two people that would have considered killing us, hopefully," Arwen says.

"Hopefully," Emmi and Gideon mutter, at nearly the same time.

If she's being honest, there might just be a tad too much savagery in this car. She looks at Jahaira, who looks torn between joining in and just crying. She wouldn't blame her for that, either. She's only keeping a cool because she has to focus on driving, on getting them as far away from that place as humanly possible for the night. Only then will she allow herself to really think about what's happening.

She has to trust these people. She let them all in the car that she's arguably in charge of.

She spent several days in a room with all of them, save for Gideon, and if Jupiter likes him then that should be reason to trust him. There's not a bad bone in Jupiter's body - that she's certain of. She wouldn't readily like someone who does, hopefully.

"Did anyone get anything of importance?"

"Besides your goddamn shovel?" Arwen asks, nudging it at her feet. Sue her, it could be useful. She's not sure if she wants to imagine for what just yet. "Found a first-aid kit. There's not much in it. Some bandages, ointment for.. something important, I'm sure, gloves, tweezers, band-aids. That's about it."

Emmi waves a packet of matches at her in the rearview mirror. Jahaira fiddles with the backpack tucked between her feet. That's their entire supply of water, right there. In a normal environment that would be fine, at least for a few days, as long as they ration it. In the desert she's not so sure. It's hot as hell, and that's being generous. They don't have the luxury of drinking every time they get thirsty right now.

"I also have this," Emmi says, unfolding a little pocket map. "Not sure how old or accurate the thing is, but I guess it could help? At least we know where the boundaries are."

"Should we not consider trying to get help?" Jupiter asks quietly. "They can't stop us from leaving."

"No, but they can kill us," Gideon says flatly. "We'll figure something out."

Will they? If he's trying to be optimistic for Jupiter's sake that's touching, she'll be the first to admit it, but it doesn't sound anywhere near realistic.

Gideon doesn't want to die any more than the rest of them. Anymore than the two people who have already died.

She can't imagine they deserved it, whoever they are. Even if it was someone she didn't talk to or like... nobody could have deserved that.

"Well, do you know where we are right now?" she asks, watching Emmi trace a finger across the map.

"Chloride City," Jahaira murmurs.

"How do you know that?"

Jahaira points a finger ahead and she follows it, to the little broken down sign at the side of the road. _Choride City Ghost Town_ it reads, along with a bunch of little symbols underneath, something about clearance.

They're in the hills now, too. They can no longer see the town they started in or the people who looked like ants from a distance, headed in the same direction. She doesn't want to know who they are.

"Well, that's one way to figure it out," Arwen says. "Ghost Town. Sweet."

Sweet on a normal day, maybe. A day of fun with friends, of exploring abandoned places and wondering what happened there once upon a time.

Right now, though, she's not wondering what happened here, hundreds of years ago.

She's wondering what's going to happen, now that they're the ghosts.

* * *

 **Kidava Vaud, 15**  
 **Applicant #19**

* * *

She kind of wants to die.

Not in the stereotypical sense, anyway. She certainly doesn't want to give anyone in this car the satisfaction of killing her. Not Soran, who's already done it once, and not Trojan, who would gloat about it after he got done with it.

And definitely not Icarus, who doesn't know what shutting the fuck up means, when he's very evidently terrified and failing to hide it.

She's never in her life seen someone cycle through emotions as quickly as Icarus is doing right now. One second he looks like he wants to cry. The next he's complaining about how Kidava kicked him out of the front seat, or complaining that he's being forced to share space with Trojan. Mostly he's just babbling, again, she suspects, because he's terrified.

But he won't admit it. She's going to kill Soran for allowing this in the first place.

"Could you be quiet for like, five seconds?" she asks, banging her head against the window.

" _Could you be quiet for five seconds_?" he mimics. "You shut up, then. Believe me, the quicker I get this out the quicker it ends. Until then, you're gonna deal with it."

"Yippee," Trojan deadpans, and Icarus kicks him in the leg. That devolves into the two of them scuffling with each other, feet smacking back and forth, hitting the seats more often than they hit each other.

She hates boys. Again, most of all Soran, who allowed this to happen in the first place. And here she was about to credit him for being intelligent.

"God, this is stupid," she mutters, and Soran hums in agreement, like he wasn't the one that basically planned all of this.

She eyes the hammer stuffed into the side pocket of the door over Soran's lap, wondering. It unsettles her, it being so close to him. It's no real weapon, not like the bow and arrow he ended her with, but her could probably make it one.

"Did they teach you to be a badass in the Super Secret Quinn School, or something?" she asks, and Trojan snorts.

"Don't."

"Oh, I'm absolutely going to," she insists. "You can't let the secret spill about being a Quinn and not want to talk about it."

"I didn't let anything spill," he says flatly. "Why don't we talk about the other elephants in the car?"

"Yeah, like the fact that you've almost killed someone," Icarus says, looking to Trojan. "Is your head okay?"

"Is yours? Or did something break, and that's why you talk so damn much?"

She can't help it - she busts out laughing like she hasn't in the past three days, so much that her stomach aches. Soran looks at her weird. All three of them do, really. They need to leave her alone.

"Why don't we talk about her head?" Icarus asks. "She's the one laughing right now."

"Well, it's not me that's dead, so I'm fine."

"Oh, of course. Will you be laughing when you are dead, then?"

She swivels in her seat, staring back at him. He stays resolutely put, hands folded in his lap, smirking. She's already grown to hate that smirk.

"Is that a threat?"

"Haven't decided yet."

"Yeah, well I'll be certain to laugh when _you're_ dead," she spits. "Even if I'm the one that has to do it."

"I'm terrified," Icarus says, voice as unruffled as can be. She nearly finds herself reaching a hand up to smack him, or else she'd ask Trojan to do it. Like Icarus said, he has almost killed someone. Hitting someone would be nothing compared to that.

She flops back into her seat, scowling, and ignores how wide Icarus' smile grows in the mirror. It's infuriating. Soran looks amused - well, half-amused and half impossibly annoyed, like they're all inconveniencing him to the greatest degree. She locks eyes with Trojan, the only one who seems to be on her side.

 _Should we get rid of him?_ he mouths, and she forces her own into a flat line, refusing to smile. Maybe she _could_ reach across Soran's lap to grab the hammer. Unless he wants to risk crashing, he probably wouldn't stop her. It would be pretty easy. She's seen kills with a hammer before; quite a few of them, in fact. It's not the most practical thing, but when it's the only thing you've got.

"Don't," Soran repeats, and she looks at him.

"Don't what?"

"Don't do what I know you want to do," he responds. "'Cause I know you will, and then you'll regret it. And I don't plan on being the one that has to clean that fucking mess up."

"Oh no, go ahead," Icarus says. "Try it, I'd love that."

"You're tempting me more and more by the minute."

"But not enough for you to really do it. You'll talk but you won't actually make the move."

"Oh, shut up," she growls. "Are you forgetting who came second in the simulation?"

"Are you forgetting who _won_?" Soran mutters, but she ignores him, and it looks like the other two do as well. Clearly there's something more behind it. That's the reason he won, the only one. Not because she looked away, trusted him for a second too long. It definitely wasn't that.

She doesn't even bother to turn around. "I could kill you in two seconds flat. I can think of a dozen ways in less than that. Do you want me to start listing them?"

"Be my guest," Icarus invites. "I'd love to hear them. Love to hear what you're so eagerly going to do to everyone in this car and everyone else too, once you find them. I'm sure everyone will be running scared. Maybe some screaming, too. You'd probably like that, huh?"

"Hold this," Soran hisses in her ear, and she flinches at his sudden proximity. He's leaning over her, half in the backseat, and wrenches one of her hands to the wheel. She goes from listening to Icarus to focusing on the dunes they're driving through, trying to keep them in a straight line.

She only glances back for a second, if that. Soran leans into the backseat, over Icarus, and pops the door open to his right. The wind that buffets over them is hot, stinging her cool skin, and she flinches further away. There's no seat-belts, Trojan had made a joke about that. She had even thought it was funny herself. But Soran lets the door swing free, all the way open in the wind, just to plant a hand on Icarus' chest and _shove him out._

She sees him fall out into the open air, a question on his lips, and then nothing. She doesn't even see him hit the ground. Soran reaches out to close the door, slamming it with a thud, and then returns to the front seat. She lets go, dumbfounded, and then rolls her window down just enough to stick her head out.

They're driving fast, fast enough that she can't make out much, but she can still see Icarus lying there in the sand. He's not moving.

But she looks down at the bracelet, and it's still at twenty-two.

"Um," she manages.

"He was annoying me too," Soran says, by way of explanation. "And you're more useful than he is."

She'd find a retort to that, normally, but doesn't have one this time. Soran rounds another dune and Icarus is gone from view.

"He's not dead, though," Trojan points out.

"Fine by me. He can find himself another way to die that's not talking himself to death, or getting his tongue ripped out by one of you."

"Or you," she says, leaning back in. "You'd have done it too."

"Believe me," Soran objects. "If I wanted him dead, he'd be dead."

* * *

My version of starting with a bang is pretty lame considering I can't kill more than a puddles-worth of human being in the bloodbath so my next chapter is generally stupid.

Perfect example tbh.

Let me know what you though if you feel so inclined.

Until next time.


	19. Human Nature

XVI: Day One, Evening.

* * *

 **Damas Mancer, 13**  
 **Applicant #12**

* * *

He thinks the bullet is still inside him.

He hasn't told either of them that.

At first he thought, from that far of a distance, that the bullet must have passed through. There had been so much blood he was certain it had. Not enough to kill him, unfortunately for him, but enough for it to be alarming. Enough for him to cling to Verity the second she had found him, because if she left him...

It was hard enough, most days, figuring out if he wanted to be dead or alive. This was the worst of them.

There's an odd sort of pressure up against his ribs, pushing in and making him gasp every time he so much as takes a deep breath. He's been managing to walk thus far, a miracle of some sorts where it doesn't seem like there are going to be any. Verity kept shooting him concerned looks, and occasionally she would start pulling him along, hand pressed over his side.

The bleeding had slowed, and then stopped, which had been a relief. It still didn't change the fact that there was almost certainly a bullet lodged somewhere in his ribs, and he was wandering through the desert like it was fine.

This place had been irradiated in the Dark Days - were they in danger from that, too, and not just the other applicants and Sentinels? He couldn't imagine it having any sort of lasting impact if it was that long ago, but still. What if there was a chance?

"Okay, stop," Percy says, which is the first thing he's said in four or five hours. Damas was beginning to think he'd gone mute which... fair. Damas almost feels mute himself, and he didn't watch anyone die. Didn't see anything of any merit, really, except his own blood in an arc over the burning desert air.

Verity lets go of him and he stumbles, trying to find his footing in the thick sand. He thought this place was supposed to be mostly rocky - apparently not.

"What?" he manages, grasping weakly at his side.

"Just let me carry you, you're what, a hundred pounds soaking wet? It's better than you wheezing with every step you take."

Damas had resigned himself to walking for all of eternity. He was certainly not going to ask, no matter how difficult it became. He couldn't just ask to burden someone else, especially not someone who was already burdened with the trauma behind his eyes. And it's not like Verity could carry him - she was strong for her age, sure, but in the desert strength became eliminated when your feet sunk into the sand every other step.

"C'mon," Percy offers, quieter, and crouches down, offering his back. Verity gives him a weak smile - encouragement, probably. With her help he eases himself onto Percy's back, tightening his arms around his neck as Percy gets back to his feet, holding onto him.

"Not even a hundred pounds," he repeats, under his breath. It does ease the pain his in side quite a bit, he can admit that. But he's burdening him, is all. Percy is going to tire faster because he's carrying him, get dehydrated quicker even as the sun does down.

He's burdening him. But he's also giving him something to do, he thinks. Something to focus on. Verity may not have noticed, distracted with helping him along, but Percy's eyes were still red. Every time he walked a little ahead or behind them Damas suspected he was crying again.

He wants to start crying again, too, but he couldn't very well do that now that he was being carried. There was no reason to.

"Is that better?" Verity asks, and he nods, trying to avoid bumping their heads together.

"Thanks," he murmurs, and Percy nods too, back to his mute self.

Verity goes back to spinning the little roll of tape she found in the shack around her pointer finger now that her hands are free, looking almost thoughtful. "When we find somewhere good to stop for the night, I think if we tore this up a bit we might be able to close up some of the wound? My brother did that, once, instead of telling our mom. He taped his finger shut after he cut himself with a knife."

Percy nods again, although Damas can't imagine anyone is particularly eager to examine the hole in his side. Besides, a knife is a lot different than a bullet, a finger a lot different than his ribs. It's smaller, less, serious. And no doubt Verity's mom found out anyway, eventually, and insisted on it being properly fixed.

Verity is looking to him, though, for... approval? No one ever looks to him for approval.

He nods once again, not wanting to sound ungrateful. She's just trying to help, and it's the only concrete supply they have. Taping his side shut certainly can't do any more damage than what's already been done.

"It'll be okay," she says, voice unnatural bright. Artificial, if he were to guess, but maybe Verity doesn't even notice it. "We'll fix you all up and then we can go look for help, maybe. That's a good idea."

Help that doesn't exist. Damas hasn't yelled in a long while, and if he wasn't so exhausted maybe he would find the energy to. Help isn't out there. No one's going to save them because no one knows they're here except for the Sentinels hunting them, the Sentinels that must have killed Nicator.

Percy hasn't breathed a word of what happened to him. He wants to ask, but doesn't have the courage.

"Help sounds good," he decides, eventually, if only so he doesn't have to see her ground. She smiles and jogs a few paces ahead. They are going a bit faster now that he's not dragging himself through the sand. At least that's one little victory.

Help does sound good, he can't lie. But it's not going to happen.

It's certainly not going to happen so long as they're carrying him along, denying the inevitable. He's not getting out of this alive. Whether it's something else or the bullet lodged in his side that finally gets him he's not sure. But something will.

Something will get them all, if he allows himself to think it. They're not built to survive.

Maybe they don't know that just yet. But he's known that about himself for years.

* * *

 **Trojan Geomantra, 18  
Applicant #22**

* * *

The car is almost _too_ silent.

He never in his life thought he would say that, not after how many words came out of Icarus' mouth in such a short period of time. It had been one thing discovering him in the car in the first place after Soran had pulled up alongside them in the road, Icarus hanging out of the window like a dog, but god, spending all that time with him.

A few hours was a _long time_.

Now he was gone, and Trojan was grateful for it, don't get him wrong, but the quiet was weird. It made him tired, to boot, and he didn't want to be tired. Kidava had passed out in the backseat not long ago and forced him up into the front, but he had no idea how she was sleeping. He didn't care, really, but he also didn't trust either of the people in this car with him. They'd slit his throat in his sleep.

The only good thing was that Trojan didn't think Soran could do that with just a hammer. He could certainly crack his skull open, though. No waking up then.

"You see that building up there?" he murmurs.

"Yeah."

"We gonna stop there?"

"Not tonight. I'll get close, but we're not going in."

Because his life mission is to listen to Soran, right. "Why not?"

"That's where they'll expect us to go. Looking for cover, supplies."

"They already know where we are. They're tracking us, remember?"

"But they'll be a lot more inclined to leave us alone when they know we're not chickening out, I reckon. We'll check it out in the morning, when we can see. When we're all awake."

"Sounds to me like you're scared of Devereux catching up with us."

"Sounds to me like you are, considering you're the one that brought it up."

The number on the bracelet still says twenty-two, and he loathes it. If only Icarus had just bought it, broke his neck after he landed the wrong way in the dunes. One problem down, the others to go. And like he said, these two people, sitting in the car with him right now. Soran's thinking about this, really thinking. He'll never say it aloud, but it's smart, the path he's going down. Morning probably _is_ better.

It's the same mentality that some of the people in the gang have back home, whereas he just follows whims and does what he wants. If someone ends up in the hospital because of it, so be it.

Icarus reminded him a little bit of that man, now that he thinks about it. Loud-mouthed, didn't know when to quit, pushed his limits to the brink and then right over. It's the reason Trojan nearly caved his head in.

Same old, same old. Here, and in his scrubby little home. Nothing ever changes.

Icarus should be lucky Soran shoved him out when he did. Sooner or later they'd have killed him outright, if he didn't shut up. What happened to him instead was a mercy, even if Icarus himself wouldn't see it that way.

It's not Icarus he's worried about, though. Soran who's focused on what's ahead of them, Kidava asleep in the back seat... these are the two people who beat him out in the simulation. The two that silently paired up and killed him like they were fucking telepathic, like they knew he was the one. He's taller than them both, more intimidating. At least they both look nice enough on a good day. He knows he doesn't.

They'll do it again, he has no doubt. Kidava won't let Soran go, because she won't stand a chance against him on her own.

Soran might let Kidava go, though. He'd probably let anyone go, considering how fast he took matters into his own hands with Icarus.

"Pandora Quinn was the main organizer behind all of this," he says, feeling the tired creep up on him again. "Is that why you're here?"

"I don't know any of them. Don't want to."

"Then why'd you come, if you knew?"

He shrugs, and that's all the answer Trojan gets. Secrets. Too many secrets, and Soran's keeping them all.

"Why are you here?"

He bites down the urge, the _I asked you first_ that crawls to the edge of his tongue. It's childish, and frankly he'll leave that bit of their conversations to Kidava, until they inevitably lose her. "Interested, I guess."

"In what?"

"Like you don't know."

"I'm not sure I want to know, considering you've almost killed someone," Soran says, ignoring him in every other respect.

"A little gruesome fascination and curiosity isn't a bad thing."

"Not to Kidava it isn't," Soran supposes. "But you also sound absolutely fucking insane, which tends to be a little off-putting."

Maybe they all are. He knows Kidava has to be off her rocker, just a little bit, or maybe she is just _that_ interested. Jesse got that way once, when there was someone going around Syracuse cutting people's hands off, leaving them in the street. She had just wanted to know so badly. Murderers and the crimes they commit just attract people. It's human nature.

Besides, when he looks at Soran, he gets that feeling too. That something's not right. Maybe it was just the Quinn thing. Maybe not. The feeling is still there, after all, even now that he knows what type of blood is sitting in this car next to him. Important blood. Presidential blood.

And it still spills all the same. Renatus Quinn still went down with a bullet to the head, easy as pie.

Soran cannot claim to be normal, the same way none of them can. Even the way they're acting in this situation isn't normal. They were four, already down to three. None of them can even raise the energy to care, unless they're mocking it.

Or unless you're Soran, not saying anything at all. Like it never even happened.

Oh, but something is going to happen. Something even bigger than what already has. Bigger than the two people dead in the town behind them, than where Icarus Devereux is still lying.

Something's coming. And he won't have a problem being on the receiving end of it.

At least that's the one thing the people in this car seem to have agreed upon. When push comes to shove, they're going to be the ones shoving.

And when it comes to murder or being murdered... there isn't even a question in his mind.

* * *

 **Noelani Westmoreland, 16  
Applicant #11**

* * *

"I fucking hate this," Jay mutters.

Well, she's not sure she would word it exactly the same way but... yeah. That's about how she feels as well.

At least Topher's spirit hasn't been dampened, although you'd think the threat of being murdered would finally do the trick.

The desert, Death Valley itself, is ominous enough. Death Valley when the sun starts going down is worse. It chases away the worst of the heat, which is a blessing in and of itself, but it makes everything seem like some oddly set horror movie. There has to have been one of those, right? People getting chased down and murdered in a desert by some psycho killer?

She's not a big horror movie fan.

What's happening to them is the equivalent, though. Maybe Tarquin would appreciate it, if there wasn't a legitimate chance of him being murdered. He'd love acting something like this out, love memorizing lines and performing it for someone. It's not Shakespeare, but it's something. It would definitely be better than being here, after all, and she's sure he'd agree.

She stops at the top of the hill, watching as the boys all begin to pick their way down. She could yell at Topher to slow down, no use in keeping her voice down if the Sentinels know where they are anyway. There's no one else near, that she's sure of. The cars went in opposite directions, and there were no other people headed this way, nowhere close.

They're safe, for now. Safe doesn't even feel like a word in her vocabulary at this moment in time.

She's trying to keep calm for their sake, trying not to fidget and jump at any little noise, but two people are _dead_ , and her little brother is here and if she's protecting herself then she might not be able to protect him, but then what would their parents think? And Tarquin and Jay... they don't deserve this anymore than either of them. She certainly can't not look after them too.

She suddenly understands why tributes had such a frantic need for allies in training. You pick the best, the strongest, the smartest.

None of those people are in this little group. It's her sibling, a good friend, someone who definitely still has even a little crush on her. But none of them are particularly big - Tarquin might stand a chance against some of them, but her and Jay's arms are the same size, and Topher still fits under her shoulder. They're screwed.

She almost says it a handful of times and swallows it. No point. There's just no point.

She waits until they're halfway down the hill, past the most dangerous part of the shifting rock, and follows. She heads towards a darker vein of it, a collection of boulders in her path, and hits her sandal against something hard, rusted away. Tugging it away from the rocks she pulls it into the air, examining it in the growing darkness. It's a piece of metal, about the length of her forearm. Besides that she can't tell what it is, or what it used to be. There's flakes of rust scattered all over her hands just from picking it up.

It's not sharp on either end, just blunt. Not good for stabbing, just poking. But it's heavy enough, and she's not that weak. She could swing it.

But for what? Like she's going to kill someone, right? She's not a _tribute._

"Hey, what's that?"

She yelps and spins around, nearly striking Tarquin in the head as she flails her arms about. He barely ducks out of the way, letting out a similar yelp of his own as he nearly goes tumbling down the hill in his quest to avoid her swing. She slides as well, and he grabs onto her arm, steadying her before she can get any further away.

"It's _me,"_ he insists.

"Got that now," she says, shakily, but clings on tighter to the piece of metal all the same. Tarquin lets go of her arm when he's satisfied at her stability, but now that she can get a good look at him her heart sinks. His eyes are wide, confused. Almost a little terrified, and she knows just of what.

"I wasn't— I wasn't going to hurt you," she says. "You just startled me, sorry."

He laughs. Awkwardly, but she doesn't point it out. Tarquin's the same as her in this respect - they're both jumpy, both yelped just the same, but he's quick to get over it. He smiles, just to make her feel better, laughs again. She forces a smile on her own face, just to keep his up.

"Jesus, Lani!" Topher yells up the hill. "Be careful!"

She nods and waves in acknowledgement. Even Jay looks a little bit freaked out, as weird as it looks on his face. Tarquin nudges her, just enough to urge her back down the hill.

"Next time I'll warn you I'm coming back up like, five or ten feet in advance," Tarquin jokes. "You got a good swing, though."

A good swing to nearly strike him in the head. What would she had done, if Tarquin hadn't ducked? Would her swing have been enough to kill him? Even if she hadn't managed to do that, he certainly would have been injured, or unconscious, and that would have been on her. She would have single-handedly been responsible for hurting someone she calls a friend.

She feels sick just at the thought of it.

"Hey," Tarquin says softly. "It's fine. I know you didn't mean it."

She holds the metal out to him. "You want it?"

"Nah, I'm good. Keep it. I'd trust you to swing it before I would."

 _Don't,_ she wants to cry, _don't trust me_. It's too much pressure on her shoulders. Suddenly she feels a weight there, something she's never felt before. Before it felt like the wind carried her around on its whims, like nothing could hold her down, and now it feels as if she's sunken to the bottom of the ocean down the road from home with stones tied around her ankles.

Tarquin follows her to the bottom of the hill, to the others. At least it's flatter, here. Nothing hiding behind stones or grass.

Regardless of what she thinks, she has to keep going. If not for herself, for them. For her father and Topher's mother, the family they've created. She has to do it because she can't let go of herself, even here. There's still a little bit of hope flickering in her, determination.

It's not much. The candle flame that is her optimism is shrinking, like someone closed the lid on it. Snuffed it out.

But she's not going to be snuffed out. Not yet.

* * *

 **Meris Loucare, 17  
Applicant #15**

* * *

"So, what's in the bag?" she asks finally.

Beside her, Ria doesn't show any indication that she's even heard. She peers up at Meris, finally, through the strands of hair that have curled over the edge of her face.

"Some things from a supply closet."

And that's probably all the information she's going to get. Mel should really work on that, this whole communication thing with her. She only agreed to come with them in the first place because of him - he needs to talk to her about being open, and honest, even if Meris isn't those things herself.

She can't imagine Ria is either. At least they have something in common, because she doesn't think there's much else there.

At least she's smart, like Mel has said. Not that she wants to discredit herself any, but she never spent an appropriate amount of time on school or any of the work associated with it. It just seemed so trivial, so mundane. Maybe it would get her somewhere, but not any of the places she wanted to go. Lyan would criticize her and tell her that she'd end up on the streets, but they were already halfway there most days it seemed.

She almost offers to carry the bag, but it took her long enough to let Mel carry it for a few hours to relieve herself of the burden. She doesn't think they're on that level yet. She wants it, there's no doubt about it. She wants to know what's in it even more. But grabbing it off of her and snooping through it will probably just make things worse, in the long run.

She'll ask Mel about that, too. She'll just make him do everything, apparently.

Speaking of, he's been gone for a while. They've found enough cover for the night, at least, and from the sun during the day if they choose to stay. Mel, like all men, she suspects, went off around the bend of the biggest rock formations to look for water all by his lonesome. If there was water nearby, the drinkable kind, she's sure they'd hear it. But more power to him if he still has the energy to look, to feel like he's doing something.

Ria sits down in the entrance of the little alcove, not venturing any further into the darkness of the cavern. It ends after about twenty feet, but even that little bit of length is completely dark towards the back.

She sees Ria fidgeting long before any words come out, but stays patient. She's thinking about how they're going to transport water anyway, if Mel does happen to find any. They can't stay in this area forever, after all.

"I have water," Ria says eventually. "Just one bottle, but I have two empty ones. If he does find any."

Rule number one, try her hardest not to get even the slightest bit exasperated, or Ria and her one bottle of water are going to run away. She nods.

"Can I take the two empty ones? I'm going to go look for him."

Ria digs them out of the bag and offers them up. They're not very big, not going to last long in the desert, but three full bottles would be better than none. Her throat already feels like sandpaper, like it's bleeding and dripping all the way down her throat.

She heads down through the rocks, bottles in hand, until she can no longer see Ria perched in her spot, steadily picking a path down in the direction Mel disappeared to. She follows his footprints, nothing more than indentations in the loose gravel, hardly markings at all. There's no way there's water anywhere around here, if not anywhere close. She just didn't have the heart to tell him that.

He's trying. God forbid he tries.

The footprints peter out once the ground becomes flat, the earth cracked and hard, full of little veins that look like they should be full of water. They're just not that lucky.

The smear across what little of the rock still lies in front of her is a stark contrast to the rest of the environment, darker. Everything in its muted shades of orange and brown and gray are nothing compared to the red against the surface of the rock. Not quite a hand-print, like someone slammed into it and continued walking on, trying to support themselves.

She almost calls out for him, almost. There's a broken arrow at the foot of the rock, cracked in two. At her feet is just the end of the shaft and the fletching, gray-brown feathers all messed together.

And all the blood, as she creeps closer. It's all over the ground too.

This isn't fucking _good_.

"Meris?"

She's not like that, she doesn't scream. She's in the process of picking up the arrow when she hears Mel's voice, just around the corner. It sounds too much like a question.

It sounds too much like something's wrong.

The end of the arrow is sharp, pointed, and she's still holding it outwards when she finds him just on the other side of the rock. She finds him, just like that. And she finds the other end of the arrow, buried in his stomach.

She's practically burning. The sun has gone down, but she still feels it. Right then her blood goes ice cold.

"It wasn't," he manages, nearly choking. "It wasn't the Sentinels."

There's a fucking _arrow_ in his stomach, half of one anyway. There's another in his shoulder, and his leg is bleeding too, like another one almost caught him. Her hand goes limp, the arrow bouncing off her shoe and rolling to a stop between their feet, useless.

Useless like she feels. Like she never, ever feels.

"Mel," she says, and her voice shakes, god her voice actually _shakes_ and she curses it, curses the terror that comes out. He's leaning against the rock but just barely, looking as if he's about to collapse. There's so much blood. Too much of it.

It wasn't the Sentinels. There were no weapons, back where they started.

And if it wasn't any of them, then who was it?

* * *

 **Arwen Paoul, 18**  
 **Applicant #1**

* * *

If she was in any other situation, she would think it was pretty.

They've found themselves a nice little lookout, the six of them. All the way up the peak the truck climbed, although the more it chugged onward the more she had convinced herself that it was about to breakdown. It was a piece of shit, looked like one too, but it was resilient. She had to give it that.

She wouldn't be caught dead in a car like this back home, but for now she was the only one in it. Everyone else had ventured outside, and while they were staying close, a loose little circle as they looked over the edge and the drop below, she could sense the uneasiness.

Still, it was pretty. She wasn't going to deny it any longer.

"You look very thoughtful," Emmi says, walking up. She nudges her leg hanging out of the passenger's side door, swiveled around on the seat to catch a glimpse of the view.

"It's nice, is all."

Emmi gives a pointed look towards the horizon. "It's also dark."

"Still nice."

"Pretty desert, pretty view, pretty group of Sentinels threatening to kill us all if we don't kill each other. You know the works."

Her lips crack up, and she swears she tastes blood when they do. She's going to die of dehydration and chapped lips before anyone ever thinks to kill her. They couldn't have handed out some chapstick before they sent them on their merry way? A care package, a bottle of water, anything?

She looks up to the sky. No parachute is ever going to come down and help her.

"You really think we're gonna have to kill each other?" Emmi asks quietly.

She pats the space between her feet, the little exposed bit of floor that she hasn't scuffed up with dirt.

"Well, not me and you, no," she says as Emmi sits down. "Everyone else, maybe. If we're in trouble."

"I'm touched."

"You better be. I wouldn't risk getting blood on my clothes or ruining my nails for just anyone."

Emmi smiles. That's prettier than the sun would be hanging in the sky, if it was still there at all. Even if it came down to the two of them, she's not sure. Anyone else she can't imagine caring about this way, even the four others here. Emmi just makes her feel like she can say whatever she wants, be whoever she so chooses to be. Not the Arwen that exists only in the public eye, the one that has a face carved out of marble and a personality as cold as steel.

Maybe because her and Emmi are the same. Different, but the same. They both used to be different people all the time - now the masks are on.

But here the charade is over. If it ever even began, with how quickly Emmi saw through it.

"I'd protect you too, I hope you know that."

"Aw," she says, just shy of too loud to cover up how warm she goes all over. "How sweet."

It is, is the main issue. When was the last time being sweet got her anywhere? When she was five, maybe, and when her dad wasn't always off managing some campaign or other for the mayor, when her mother wasn't off having brunch with the other resident trophy wives of their neighborhood. Now she was just expected to be what they wanted, not coached to do so. She was old enough to do it on her own.

At least they're not here. She doesn't think they'd approve of their perfect little daughter murdering someone.

Emmi's hair is tickling at her bare legs, and after a moment of hesitation she scoops it up, coming her fingers through it. Her own was pulled back to begin with, on the hovercraft, up in a bun and away from her face.

"Whatcha doing?"

"Pulling your hair back," she explains, starting a braid at the base of her skull. "No offense meant, but it can't be easy to do on your own."

"It's not. My dad was always shit at it, too. He never quite got the gist of braiding hair."

"What about your mom?"

"She died when I was little. Sucks, because she had such nice hair, too. And she always did it so well; could've taken some pointers from her."

She hums instead of answering, no words to say in response, and focuses on the task at hand. It'll be better to have her hair out of her face, for whatever happens. That's her justification behind it. Having another reason right now isn't a good thing, as much as she wants it to be.

She ignores Gideon, who's chosen to stare at them in a very non-subtle way like it's the most interesting thing he's seen all day. She knows for a fact it's not. She finishes up the braid and ties it off with the only elastic she has left on her wrist.

"Now, don't lose that," she insists. "I've only got two."

Only two, and now Emmi has one of them. Emmi, who turns and smiles at her, running her hand over the braid and elastic in question, all the way to the end.

"I won't. Promise."

Yeah, she won't be asking for it back, anyway.

* * *

I swear I'll get back to the actual murdering business soon. Like next chapter soon. It's all a work in progress. Apologies for the delay; I was engagement partying it up.

Let me know your thoughts. Hope you're a having a lovely day.

Until next time.


	20. Who Strikes First

XVII: Day Two, Morning.

* * *

 **Tarquin Vierra, 16**  
 **Applicant #4**

* * *

The sun rises with painstaking slowness.

He's not a baby. He's not afraid of the dark, doesn't need a night light to fall asleep once his parents tuck him in. He definitely doesn't need to cuddle with either of said parents to close his eyes comfortably.

He's not afraid of the dark, but the night was terrifying.

The stars were their only source of slight, the moon a mere sliver hanging above their heads. The sky was more blue than black, a color he would appreciate normally had he been able to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time under it.

Topher had fallen asleep almost instantly when they settled down, and he was beyond envious of that. Jay had followed not long after after some fitful glancing around, flopping over in the dirt with an arm cast over his eyes like that helped, somehow. Noelani hadn't talked about keeping watch; he hadn't wanted to think of it like that, as if they had to. As if there was something out there worth watching for.

He had laid down, but the earth was still hot to the touch, remained that way all through the night. It was still hot as hell, anyway. The sun going down hadn't changed that. They couldn't get that lucky.

It was with painstaking slowness that Noelani had fallen asleep as well, although it was restless, and he watched her eyelids twitch back and forth almost every other minute, like she would never be able to rest well. Every time he closed his eyes something would bring him back out of it. A noise, the rustle of a bush in the wind, the dirt blowing past his ears. A shadow in the distance, something that almost looked like help coming to save them, if he was delusional enough...

Right now, he wished he was.

By the time the sun pokes over the horizon he's been wide awake for an hour, flopped over on his stomach. He sits up, his back and legs and everything protesting at the moment, made painful by the hard-packed ground. His friends made him watch the sunrise, sometimes, when they had their sleepovers. Arden never slept past the dawn anyway, and she would ensure to drag them all up as well, to cram themselves around her bedroom window to watch it.

He didn't have the heart to wake anyone now.

It was one of the prettiest sunrises he had ever seen. Purple and pink and bright orange, setting the earth on fire, scattering in wisps all across the sky. He could already feel the heat returning, feel it settling back over his skin like a shawl in the dead of summer.

If the sudden light is bothering anyone's closed eyes, they show no indication. Noelani and Topher live under the sun almost the full year around. He doesn't have that luxury.

It reminds him of Ria, almost, but she had chosen to stay away from everyone, and he had always chosen the stage. It was dark, cooped up inside all the time, but at least then the darkness was good. Not like out there. And even the lights above the stage hadn't been as sweltering at the rising sun.

He's got a lot of layers on, always does. He shrugs off the first one and lays it out in front of him. All that matters is that his arms and shoulders are still covered, this he can use for something else. His socks are a no-go, he won't risk the blisters, and he preferably like to keep his pants on.

The shirt he can use though. They have no knife, no scissors, but it's not all that thick. He never liked to be burdened by something that was.

He starts at the bottom, pulling experimentally at the seam until it comes free with a rip, separating the bottom layer from the rest. He does it until he can pull the two apart. It's too bad he doesn't have a hat, won't be able to, either, with just this shirt for cover, but it's good use for other things. He wraps some of the fabric between his fingers and around his wrist, tying the ends together. Not quite a glove, and his palms will sweat like they never have before, but it's better than them being covered in sun-burnt blisters.

The shirt tears into more and more strips. He ties another round his other hand and ties it around the bracelet. He doesn't want to see it, anyway, doesn't want to know what happens today, if anything does at all.

Someone else will tell him. He doesn't want to see the truth with his own two eyes.

"What're you doing?" Topher mumbles, sleep still heavy in his voice. He rolls over to face him, although his eyes are still closed. Tarquin doesn't bother waving the torn-up strips of his shirt around.

"Making gloves."

"It's not cold."

No, that it's not. Topher mumbles something else again and then face-plants back into the dirt. It's as if he's forgotten what's going on, the sort of danger they're all in.

Maybe he'll let Jay use the other two. He's fair enough, will probably need them in the future, if they last that long.

He doesn't want to be thinking that way. It makes him sick, and he's already starving as is. He doesn't need to throw up what little he has left in his stomach at the thought of any of them dying, of any of them getting hurt.

He wouldn't have been so paranoid in the night if that wasn't the case, though. There's a reason his eyes kept opening, against his will. They knew something could be coming, even when his brain wanted to deny it. Everything he thinks he sees, every noise he hears, it could be something coming for them. It could be inevitable death, right on their heels.

It sounds dramatic. Maybe it is. That's what he's always been best at - playing things up, making them seem more than they are, putting on a show.

He likes putting on another face, playing a role.

Right now he can be no one other than himself, and that's the worst part of all.

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17  
Applicant #10**

* * *

He expected to be dead.

When the last thing you could remember was falling out of a speeding car, shoved, more like, death was to be expected. He had hit the ground. He didn't remember hitting the ground, of course, because that would have made things much simpler.

He wakes up in the sand, blood in his eyes, wobbling alarmingly when he stands, and starts walking anyway.

The head wound isn't not that bad. He's not even sure he has one because he can't see, so maybe he's just delusional from the heat. It may have just been his nose, because it hurts, and he can't tell if he landed on it or not. It would have produced enough blood to get in his eyes, at the angle he was laying at when he woke.

His skin has been on fire since he woke, what little of it was left exposed to the sun while he was out. His scalp is raw, he's sure, and every time his hands brush against his sides as he walks he wants to scream, or start crying. It fucking hurts.

Crying would be appropriate. He doesn't think, for once in his life, that anyone would fault him for it.

If anyone was around to see it.

In hindsight, maybe that's why he starts following what's left of the car's tracks through the sand. They've half-blown away by the time he gathers the courage to follow them, but they're there. He couldn't have been out for that long. They didn't get that far.

So he walks, from mid-day to night. Sits there in the darkness with his arms wrapped around his knees in the middle of nowhere, exposed to the wind. Eventually he gets up and keeps on walking, because he's not sleeping anyway. It's easier to walk at night, too. His throat isn't so parched. The sun can't hurt him.

The sun hasn't quite risen yet when he _hears_ the car and nearly throws himself to the ground in his haste to avoid being seen, even though he can't see it. If he can't see it, they can't see him. If it even really is them.

He contemplates just lying in the sand forever, until heatstroke takes him. If it isn't already.

But no, he gets up, even though he feels like collapsing the second his feet are back under him, and spots the car not far in the distance at all. Their car. The one he was in just yesterday.

It's really not far at all, and now it's stopped just at the edge of a long, low-roofed building in the middle of nowhere. He watches all three of them file out, still just the three, into the building.

His first thought is to take the car, driving skills be damned.

When he finally skirts over and across the dunes, getting closer and closer to the car, he doesn't even consider jumping into the front seat and driving away. It would be funny, sure, but they'd probably all come after him and murder him, regardless of how much faster he was. He also doesn't think that he'd get far on his own, if he's being honest.

So why is he here, then? He should be trying to find other people, not these three. Trojan and Kidava who wanted him out of the car in the first place, Soran who shoved him out in the end.

These three are just the easiest.

He's not sure in which way he's referring to, there.

He inches around the car, pressing himself to the sun-warmed metal. The wrench he had shoved in the seat's pocket is gone, and whoever took it is going to get it. The hammer is, too, but at least he knows that it's Soran who probably has that. The glove-box isn't open - would Soran have told the other two about the water by now, or would he have kept it to himself?

Hopefully it's still there, or he might die of thirst.

If he opens the car door they're going to hear him, bastards. Some sort of sixth sense, no doubt. Which means he had to go inside and... what, exactly?

He has no idea. He didn't come all this way for nothing.

Closer to the building there are piles of rubbish, and he inches his way over until he's practically standing in one of the heaps, nudging his foot through it. There's not much of use, besides a few glass bottles. He picks one up. Good for water, if he ever finds any. Maybe he should risk emptying out there bottles and filling his own - now that would be funny. They go to have a drink, finally, and all of the bottles are empty. Now that would create chaos, a game of who done it.

He grips the muted green bottle around the neck, twisting his hand around it. It feels good to have something in his hand, even if it's meaningless.

"Oh, fuck's sake."

He flinches and nearly trips over the garbage, turning to where Trojan has emerged from the building behind him. This is exactly what he meant about a sixth sense. Why are they all so fucking creepy?

He swallows, throat like sandpaper. He really did not think this through well enough. What does he do, say hello? Forgive them?

He's not forgiving them, not for this.

"You've got a funny look in your eyes," he says, instead, and Trojan smirks.

"What do you think that means?"

"I'm hoping it's not what I think it means."

Trojan looks like the cat who just caught the goddamn canary. _Thanks, Estella_ , he wants to say, _thanks for getting me into this big fat fucking mess in the first place._

"Guys!" Trojan yells, still with that look on his face. Trojan is going to kill him, he has no doubt. "We've got—"

Trojan is absolutely going to kill him, so he tunes him out.

He lunges forward, catching the glass bottle against the stone wall. It shatters clean in half; bits of the bottle cut into his hand, fresh wounds in a situation where he doesn't need them. Trojan has the wrench in his hand, _bastard,_ just had to take what wasn't his, that's how he is.

Icarus' life, or lack thereof, doesn't belong to him either.

Trojan's still in motion, voice still going. Doesn't even lunge out of the way. Probably doesn't think anything of it, because Icarus didn't either, up until two seconds ago. This wasn't how this was supposed to go.

How was it supposed to go, then?

He doesn't figure it out, burying the cracked end of the bottle into the soft side of Trojan's neck.

There's an immediate spurt of blood over his hands, down his arm. Trojan chokes and pulls away. The bottle tears through more skin, more veins, into his jugular. He sees it happen, the slick of blood that gushes down over his neck, still all over his hands. He rips the bottle out and so much of it splatters all over his shoes, his pants, the front of his shirt. So much for all white, for all the elegance in the world.

Trojan hits the ground at his feet, blood out the mouth, seeping into the sand. Both of his hands are at the edge of the wound torn into his throat, as if he's trying to coax the blood back in, his jugular back together into one cohesive piece.

Not going to happen, he wants to say.

His throat is worse than sandpaper, now.

"What the _fuck_?" Kidava shouts. The bracelet flicks from twenty-two to twenty-one, but he's too busy staring at the two of them, ten feet behind Trojan's body. Soran honest to God _laughs_ but even that sounds shocked, incredulous. Not horrified. He can't imagine Soran looking horrified, or even feeling it.

"Well, I can safely say I wasn't expecting that," Soran says, wide-eyed. Why does he look amused? Is this fucking amusing?

He's still got the bottle, Soran the hammer. Before this moment neither of those things looked all that intimidating.

"Give me the keys," he instructs, voice somehow steady. It shouldn't be, with blood inching towards his shoes. He should probably just leave. Getting away would be best right now.

"No?" Soran says. "Fuck you."

"Give me the fucking hammer, then," Kidava interrupts, voice edging towards darker territory. "Give me something to use."

" _No_ ," Soran repeats.

"You don't think I'll kill you?" he asks. His voice won't last much longer. "I will, clearly. Give me the keys."

"I don't think you will."

"I should," he snaps. "The three of you fucking what, telepathically communicated to get me out of the car? Clearly I can't trust multiples."

"Two, now," Soran points out. "So what, you only want one of us dead, then? It's much easier to only have to keep an eye on one person. Let's make a deal, then. Whichever one of us is alive at the end of the next minute, you don't kill. Sound good?"

"What?" Kidava asks incredulously, at the same time Icarus thinks it.

Yeah. _What_?

Soran takes a step back from both of them. His fingers are so slippery it's hard to hold onto the bottle. He sees the hammer raise, just a few inches, thinks _oh no, oh shit_ and then Soran cracks the hammer into Kidava's skull.

It really does crack. There's no other way to describe it. Like your knees when you sit for too long, like stepping on a whole minefield of broken glass. He hears it, the vicious sound of the bone crunching. Her scream is cut off almost instantly, only half out of her throat. He doesn't even see where the face of the hammer lands because it happens so quick, just the swing of the momentum as Soran carries it out, and then brings it back.

No, not more blood.

The claw hits her in the throat on the back-swing, just above the breastbone. Sinks in. Not as much blood as what he did to Trojan, but God, it's still there. She hits the ground with a thud and he holds her there, forcing the claw in further. More blood. There it is.

"What the fuck?" he chokes, barely-formed words. Soran pulls the claw back out.

Twenty-one to twenty.

"We had a deal, remember?"

"I didn't agree to that!" he insists. "Are you fucking insane?"

"You did it first," Soran points out. Fuck, there's blood on his shoes. There's blood on Soran's shoes too.

He slips backwards when Soran approaches, but he skirts around him and heads for the car instead. He nearly drops the bottle as he watches him go, torn between how casually and easily he walks away and the two corpses on the ground in front of him. Alive one minute, dead the next.

He killed one of them. And like Soran said, he did it first.

One of the doors slams behind him. The car starts.

"What, are you coming, or not?" Soran asks. He stares, more and more, on and on. Is that all he can do, now?

"What?" he croaks.

"Are you coming?" Soran repeats, slower. "Or are you going to stand here until the sun sets you on fire?"

He feels so dizzy, like he's the one losing blood. His head is pounding in the temples, like he got hit with the hammer. His head would be pounding worse if that was the case. Is Soran allowing him in the car? Is that really what's happening?

He stumbles forward for the passenger door and pulls it open, clambering inside. He doesn't know what he expects. To get shoved out again, because Soran seems like the type to repeat history.

It's cooler in the car. Not by much, but it is. He takes a deep breath and swears he tastes blood in his throat.

He pops open the glove-box, and all three water bottles roll out into his lap, one to his feet. They're all still full. When he picks one up, the one rolling back and forth on the floor, he leaves behind a sticky hand-print.

He looks at Soran. "You didn't tell them."

Soran smiles. It's unnerving, but not as unnerving as it was yesterday.

He's not sure why. He's not sure he wants to know, either.

"It's like you said," he explains. "Can't trust multiples."

* * *

 **Jahaira Aurelion, 16  
Applicant #23**

* * *

She was always a good sleeper.

Raelle wasn't, was the thing. Her mother always lamented the fact that her little sister didn't sleep as well as she did, as many times as she could. That was parenthood for you.

She's talking about her sister in the past tense, like she doesn't exist in the future.

Maybe for Jahaira she doesn't. Maybe the only people that know her sister now are the ones that exist back in Plainview, the ones she'll meet one day. Not her, who's almost certainly dead. There's no optimism in that sentence, a stark contrast to how she usually is. Getting her to see the gloom and doom back home was almost impossible, even for the people that knew her best.

But she wakes, quicker than usual, and that all fades away. Someone's rambling, a slightly hysterical uplift to their voice. She rolls over, nearly into Myra's crossed legs, who's staring off into nothing at all. Arwen's head is buried in her hands and she's ever so slowly shaking it back and forth. It's Jupiter and Emmi who are talking, although Jupiter's doing all the rambling. Gideon's off fifty feet away, doing God knows what. Every once in a while he'll lean down to pick something up. Is he off picking flowers right now?

"What's up?" she asks, because she can't make any sense of whatever is coming out of Jupiter's mouth. It definitely sounds pretty hysterical. All of their words are blending together into one.

Myra doesn't say anything, but she reaches over and taps the face of Jahaira's bracelet, instead. She squints, blinking the sleep out of her eyes.

It said twenty-two last night.

It definitely doesn't say that anymore.

"What," she says flatly. "Wait is that... is that right?"

Myra shrugs and looks back at Jupiter. Well, that certainly explains the hysteria. It looks like they might be crying, or at least on the quick to decent to that path. She doesn't feel any sort of immediate emotion besides alarm, until she really gets to thinking about it. Two more people are dead, unless the bracelet has taken to lying to them overnight. Would the Sentinels really do that, fake them out in order to freak them out, in order to spur them on?

She gets the feeling they would, certain ones. But Carnelia Trevall? She's already playing enough mind games.

What if it was someone she talked to, spent a little bit of time with? Sure, the people she's closest to are sitting right here in front of her, but they weren't the only ones. What if it was one of the younger kids, the ones who deserve it even less than the rest of them?

What if it was someone she ate breakfast with just two days ago, someone she sparred with?

"Hey," Myra says. "Don't cry."

She blinks, and wipes away tears she hadn't realized were appearing before they begin to fall. She shakes her head, almost viciously. No need to cry. It's not her that's dead. No need.

"I'm not trying to sound like an asshole," Myra says. "I just— we need to figure something out."

Try telling that to Jupiter, who's clearly worse off than Jahaira is in their current moment. She could almost see herself snapping that, if the situation was different. She hated when people cried for no good reason at all.

Was this not a good reason, though?

"I just can't believe we're actually fucking killing each other," Arwen mutters. "Like, we're really doing this? It took what, a whole day? Good job, guys."

"You don't know that it wasn't the Sentinels," Myra says. "It probably was."

"If it was really them that killed the people in the bloodbath, then I doubt it," Emmi interrupts. "They don't want to kill us themselves. If that opportunity arises they will, and I'm sure they'll gladly take it, but it would be a hell of a lot more entertaining to make us kill each other. They threatened our families. Someone probably thought about that."

Even when she thinks about her mother and father, Raelle, she's not sure her mind immediately jumps to killing someone to protect them. Maybe if they were coming after her, first, but only then.

Would she really have it in her?

Myra looks annoyed, now. She's not sure if it's at the general state of things or at Emmi, who looks torn between yelling and shaking her first at the sky and trying to calm Jupiter down.

Gideon returns, finally, holding a handful of weedy-looking flowers by the stems. He's got one poking out of his mouth, too, munching on it.

"Are you eating weeds?" Arwen asks flatly. He drops one in her lap.

"It's sand verbena. Edible."

Arwen mutters something under her breath and then tucks the weedy looking thing behind her ear instead of putting it in her mouth. He offers a few of them to Jupiter, who wipes away their tears before taking the offer from his hands.

"Great," Myra says. "Eating weeds and murdering each other. Great summer vacation."

"You really think it was the Sentinels?"

Myra draws a pattern in the dusty ground with the tip of her finger. She's noticed her doing that a lot, moving her hands. It's how she keeps checking her pocket for her camera. They took all their phones, but they left the camera where it was.

Probably because it won't do anything to save her.

"No."

"Then why'd you say that?"

"Because I wanted to trust in the fact that we wouldn't resort to this."

"Not we," she says quietly. "We haven't done anything."

Myra finishes whatever it is she was drawing, or writing, and wipes it away with the palm of her hand before Jahaira can make it out. "Not yet."

* * *

 **Sabre Hennedige, 15  
Applicant #6**

* * *

He would never say he's avoiding talking to Faye out-loud.

It's not the right thing to do. Certainly not the polite, one. Someone would give him a reprimanding back in Two for saying that, so he doesn't. She hasn't intentionally woken him up, he thinks, but she's also not being quite either. She's kicking rocks around under the little bit of cover they have, a half-caved in roof of a shed with only two free-standing walls.

The rocks keep hitting him. He keeps his mouth shut.

"We need to move," she says under her breath, although he still hears it. "Head north? North sounds good. Away from everyone else, and some places that won't have been rummaged through yet. Maybe we could find a map..."

Faye's trying to make a plan. Enviable, in a situation like this. He has to give her some credit for keeping such a firm head on her shoulders for her age. Even yesterday, the way she approached him, she knew what she was doing.

It's unnerving, almost. Like she knows how to do everything. In his experience the ones that know how to do everything are typically the most dangerous, the ones to watch out.

"Not an ideal situation," she continues. "Not really. Maybe you should try and find some other people? Someone—"

 _Better_ , his brain finishes, so he misses the word she really says. Faye can't take the bike without him, not unless she walks it until she finds someone else to drive it. He'd catch up with her.

Would he really, though? Would he want to? If he's being honest, he'd probably just let her go.

He rolls over, feigning a perfect example of someone waking from sleep, rubbing his hand over his eyes. Faye goes quiet, and the rocks stop bumping into his legs as she stops her pacing back and forth.

"Sorry for waking you up," she says. For once, she looks genuinely apologetic.

"You didn't," he responds. She did, but what good is that information going to do? Faye would feel bad, he would feel awkward for bringing it up. Better to just keep that information to himself, where it's safest.

"I think we should head out," she decides, and he nods, like he hadn't heard her all along. "We need to find some food, and some more water."

It's not a bad idea. People can go a long time without food, that he knows, but it'd be easier with. Faye will grow hungry long before he does, too, and he doesn't want to see her starve. That's not something anyone deserves.

If only he thought that about himself.

She takes a minuscule sip from one of their water bottles and then offers it to him. He almost refuses, almost caps it and tucks it away again until he notices her staring. He does the same, although he's sure the amount he takes is even less. Water is important. Water is going to keep him alive. He needs to keep reminding himself of that, that there's no reason to withhold it from his body.

Faye finally ventures outside, a generous term for when they're already there, barely sheltered at all. He occupies himself with tucking everything away in the bag, pulling the bottles back out when he's not satisfied to find them a better spot. Holding gas and their drinking water in the same space probably isn't their safest option, but it's the only one they have.

He pats at his pocket while Faye is gone. She could be back any second, now. Maybe she's just headed off for a bathroom break, which means he has maybe a minute.

He doesn't need that long, though. Through the fabric of his pocket he can feel the little tool still nestled carefully inside. He's not even sure what it is, really. All he knows is that it has a small handle that fits perfectly into his palm with a long, silvery spike that emerges from one end. The end is sharp, enough to draw blood if he pressed hard enough. He thinks he's seen the woman at Cortague with one before, the one that made all of their dancing costumes. So it's some sort of sewing thing, although it looks more dangerous. Like it could do more damage.

He could ask Faye what it is. She'd probably know.

She returns, though, and he does nothing more than offer her the bag, watching her adjust it only her back once again. All he can do is hope that his pockets are deep enough to hide it for good.

For some reason he feels like hiding something from her, a weapon as small as his hand, is asking for it. He already senses an explosion from her end if she were to ever find out about it, a level of distrust made worse by this secret.

They already don't trust each other. That much is clear.

Is he just making it worse?

"You ready to go?" Faye asks. He gets up, brushing his hands against the legs of his pants. He's covered in dust, his clothes stained with it. Now would be the time to so desperately wish for a shower, or something to comb his hair back.

He no longer has the luxury of those things. They don't even have food.

He is ready, though. More ready than he feels as if he has any right to be.

Maybe it's the dancer training bred so deeply into him that he has no idea how not to feel it, the ability to get up and keep going even when it hurts, even when you know it's not safe.

Even when you may fail.

"Good to go," he says, forcing a smile up. His teeth could use a good brushing, too.

No luxuries. No safety.

No guarantee at life or death, either.

* * *

 **Percius Marigold, 17  
Applicant #2**

* * *

He's come to discover that he's not a gigantic fan of blood.

Not for any great, overwhelming reason other than the fact that it's messy, gets everywhere, sticks to things and refuses to leave. Damas side has stopped bleeding, that's for certain, but it's hard to even tell what's wrong with it when there's crusted over blood everywhere, dried to every inch of his skin. He can hardly make out where the wound begins and ends. The only good thing is that it's probably smaller than it looks. The blood just makes everything worse.

He didn't think it bugged him. He could watch horror movies, watch the gore. If you couldn't do that in the Capitol, then who were you, really?

Maybe if he hadn't seen Nic's blood all over the street, a spray like rain. Maybe if he hadn't seen that...

There's no maybe. He saw it. He can't get it out of his head.

He's only doing this because of Nic, who wouldn't have left either of these two kids behind to die on their own. He would have carried Damas out of there, made sure Verity was close to him at all times.

He's not doing it out of the goodness of his own heart, which is terrifying. To think if he still had Nic he wouldn't have even had the thought to protect these two kids, get them to safety.

Like this is safety.

"How bad does it hurt?" he asks. Damas stretches a bit on his side, wincing.

"It's sort of numb, now. Not as bad."

"It looks like it hurts," Verity observes. No shit, it looks like it hurts. He can't imagine getting shot feels very good.

At least Nic went quick, bullet right to the brain. At least it didn't hurt. He really hopes it didn't. He hopes he wasn't scared, that he didn't feel anything, that he wasn't worried. Nic didn't deserve that.

"It's okay," Damas murmurs. Percy pulls off another strip of duct tape, tearing it into smaller piece.

"I don't think those are small enough," Verity chimes in. "You need to make them smaller, like butterfly stitches. You know?"

"No, I don't," he mutters, but tears them smaller all the same. It's not like he's ever had butterfly stitches. When he got his surgery there were sutures in his chest for a week, not anything less. Butterfly stitches wouldn't have been good enough.

And Verity's talking like she knows best, like she's a certified doctor teaching her intern the ins and outs of stitching.

He kind of wants to yell. At her, or the general world.

He just wants Nic back.

"Tell me if it hurts too bad," he instructs, sealing a strip over the edge of the wound. There's no way this is sanitary. His hands aren't even clean, and they have no way to clean off all the blood and grime from his wound. If he doesn't end up infected it'll be a miracle. He's already hot to the touch - maybe that's the sun, but Percy's not so optimistic about that one.

He forces the torn skin together at the left edge, layering another strip of tape over it. It might be the ugliest thing he's ever seen.

"Yeah, that's better!" Verity says, looking way too delighted about this whole thing. "Does that feel better?"

Damas nods tersely. Percy gets the feeling he's lying, just for her sake.

"I'm serious," he repeats under his breath, so that Verity can't hear. "If it hurts too bad, I'll stop."

"No, it's fine," Damas whispers. "I'd rather you do it."

And Percy would rather not do it, but who gives a fuck about that, right? Certainly not Verity, who's doing a lot of criticizing for someone who isn't willingly participating. No, she's just hovering over him like a watchful parent who's kid sucks at his homework.

He hears off more strips, sticking them to the least dirty part of his hand. It's all pretty dirty.

"Some sponsors would be nice right about now," Verity sighs, shielding her eyes against the rising sun. "I wish someone would send us something."

He grinds his teeth together, forces his mouth shut before he snaps. No one's going to be sending them anything except a nice, helpful serving of death, forced right down their throats. She just doesn't get it. She didn't see anyone die. She doesn't know what happened to Nic.

Because he hasn't told her, but that's beyond the point.

He continues on with his taping in silence, letting Verity ramble to herself above them. She's scared, probably. He shouldn't be angry at her for that.

He's not really angry at her. He just wants something to be angry at, to let everything out.

Finally he finishes sealing what he thinks is the entirety of the wound, trying to flake away some of the blood with his fingers. It's still a mess, but at least there's no gaping hole in Damas' side now. Tape won't hold long, probably, not with all the sweating they're doing and how messy it is, but they've got a whole roll of it, provided Verity ever gives it back.

"All done," he says. Damas reaches a careful hand up to feel at his side, and Percy guides his fingers to the edge of it, away from the worst bits.

"That feels better," he says quietly. "Thanks."

This time he can't tell if it's a lie, so maybe that's a good thing. Maybe he really did help this time, instead of letting something awful happen just before him.

It's for Nic, he reminds himself. Nic who was too good for this world to begin with.

Hopefully he's somewhere better, now. He's never been particularly religious, was never raised that way, but he hopes that place exists.

That's what Nic deserved.

* * *

Special shout-out to anyone who got to read this chap last week as a by-product of me accidentally uploading it instead of the correct one. You're the real heroes for not telling me how undeniably stupid I am.

Until next time.


	21. You Are Not Alone

XVII: Day Two, Night.

* * *

 **Topher Westmoreland, 12  
Applicant #24**

* * *

They really need a plan, a goal in mind, and no one wants to think that far.

He can't say he really blames them. At least tonight they're walking on, making progress instead of sleeping the easiest hours away. In this place becoming nocturnal will be easier than not. Sure, they may not be able to see the greatest, but at least the heat isn't quite so unbearable.

It might be a little too late for them in that regard, though. He almost certainly has heat exhaustion already. He got it once when he was younger, when he spent too long out on the beach even after his mother told him to come inside.

There are clouds on the horizon. It's hard to tell in the darkness, but he hopes they're rain clouds. That wouldn't make much sense, but what does about this place? A little unplanned rain would do wonders to their mindset right now. They could have something to drink, something to cool them off, something to dance around in like that was their biggest concern.

He couldn't let them do that, obviously. It's pretty terrible that Topher already knows that he'd be the one to reign them all back in, to talk some sense into them and get them to stop any sort of foolish, trivial thing they could come up with.

They're kids. Fun is in their blood, ingrained into their childish DNA.

But the Sentinels are clearly expecting them to act like more, to act like their District counterparts nine years ago and beyond. Like the trained murderers that the Careers were, the desperate, terrified murderers that the outer-District kids were.

He guesses they would be Careers then, him and Noelani.

Well, that doesn't make very much sense.

Oddly enough he thinks he'd be better at it than Noelani would be. She seems determined enough, but she's just too nice. Too good-hearted. Not to mention the fact that she nearly bludgeoned Tarquin with a piece of metal yesterday because he had the audacity to unintentionally sneak up on her, startling her to the high heavens.

"You're awfully quiet," Jay says, catching up to him. He looks like a tomato. A very crispy, sun-burnt one. He probably doesn't look any better, so there's no point in mentioning it.

"I could say the same thing about you." _You're less annoying_ is what he really wanted to say, but again, no point. Some of his confidence has been shattered, his normal put-yourself-out-there attitude. He's still talking to Noelani, sure, but it's less awkwardly flirtatious and more gratitude. She did probably save his life, after all.

Besides, was Jay really ever annoying? Persistent, sure, but so is Noelani. Just because Jay had, _has_ a thing for his sister, doesn't make him annoying. It's not like he has any control of her either.

"What the hell is there to talk about?" Jay asks. "We're all probably going to die. Yay."

"I'm not so sure about the _probably_ ," he responds. Definitely is the more likely option. "They're finding things to talk about."

Noelani and Tarquin just talk, easy peasy, like they've known each other for ages. Common interests can do that sort of thing. They're the same eager, all over the place type of person. It's not hard to see why.

"Some artsy bullshit or other," Jay tells him. "I don't know, I don't get any of it. My parents took me to a museum once when I was little, some fancy art one. Everyone just kept telling me to be quiet."

"Must've been difficult for you."

Jay nudges him. "Shut the hell up. You're no better."

Well, so much for casting aside the idle, delusional conversation. Now he's a part of it, with someone who nearly annoyed him to death in their shared room a few days ago. Those times sleeping in the bunks seem like they're a million years back now.

"We need to come up with some sort of like... battle plan," he says eventually.

" _Battle plan_?" Jay scoffs. "Dude, you're like, four foot ten and have the strength equivalent of a praying mantis. You can't call it that."

"I'm surprised you even know what a praying mantis is," he says, only mildly surprised. "And you're one to talk. You're not even that much taller than me."

"I'm _much_ taller than you," Jay insists, and Topher swears he starts walking on his tip-toes alongside him, judging by the awkward lapse in his gait. He really isn't, but it's sort of funny, this casual bickering. He can't in his heart make it stop, not when it feels natural, like another day at school. Like he's back home with his friends. Behind them Noelani is smiling, too, clearly pleased at the development.

Like they're not in some sort of weird, twisted Hunger Games. He never understood how kids in the past could get along so well as allies, when they knew they very well might have to kill each other in the coming days.

He gets it now. It's a lot easier than he thought it would be.

"I'm serious, though," he says. "We need to come up with a plan. Several plans, probably. What happens if someone else approaches us, if we get split up what direction should we all head, if someone attacks us—"

"What are we going to do, if someone attacks us?" Jay interrupts. "I mean, I know we're supposed to kill them, but..."

"But what?"

"I don't remember having this much savagery in me when I was twelve, and it wasn't even that long ago," Jay mumbles. "Are you saying you'd kill them, then? 'Cause I don't know if I could, to be honest. I know that probably doesn't make me sound like a good ally, but it's true."

"You seem like someone to take advantage of a situation," he observes.

"Yeah, a normal situation. Not a murder one. Entirely different things, dude."

They may not be that different though, if things go on like this much longer. Sooner or later one of them will drop from heat-stroke, or something worse. Sooner or later they're going to be confronted with something that will lead to an impossibly hard choice.

He doesn't think Jay will do it. Noelani definitely won't, and neither will Tarquin.

That means it's going to come down to him. The twelve year old, the one who everyone always wrote off in the past. The kid who never won.

"I guess I would kill someone, then," he says, trying to be casual about it. That's what this is. Casual. "I'd make the hard decision if I had to."

Jay nods and looks back to the dirt between his feet as they walk. God, the back of his neck really is red. Tomato-like, indeed. At least he's slightly more olive-skinned, thanks to his mother. At least he has something going for him.

And the inevitable murder that he's going to commit, apparently.

He's not a hateful person. Not a murderous one, either. He won't do it without feeling bad, without hating himself for it.

But he'll do it. To survive, for them all to survive, he will.

* * *

 **Verity Alameda, 13  
Applicant #3**

* * *

Damas is sort-of sleeping on her leg.

She offered. He accepted. She also offered several, several hours ago and is almost certain she's never going to get the feeling back in her leg, but at least he seems more comfortable. Once he had settled down he hadn't looked eager to separate from her any more than was necessary.

She doesn't have the heart to move him, even though he keeps asking if she's alright, constantly. She's fine. Who needs two working legs, anyway? Jupiter seemed to get around fine with just one flesh one.

Percy's still managing to make noise even with his mouth shut, tapping his toes against the ground, flicking at the end of the duct tape with his index finger. He gnaws on his nails so loud that he might as well be doing it right inside her ear. She's almost tempted to crawl over there and put tape over his fingers so he can't do it anymore, like her mother would always threaten when she was younger.

She would, if Damas wasn't keeping her pinned here.

He looks... haunted. Someone previously so alive looks nothing short of dead behind the eyes, like his insides have already passed on.

She knows that she can be bold, sometimes. That's the nice way to put it. She saw the look in his eyes earlier when she kept critiquing his work; it's the only reason she eventually shut up. She hadn't apologized, that was going a tad too far, but now she's beginning to reconsider.

"You can go to sleep, if you want," she offers. "I'll stay up for a bit and make sure we're clear."

He shakes his such, such a minute detail that she barely picks up on it. "I'm good."

He didn't sleep much at all last night. She slept like a log, she knows, but judging by the circles under his eyes he didn't get more than a few minutes. That combined with the stress, carrying Damas, not eating or drinking...

She's surprised he hasn't dropped dead, if she's being honest.

"You need to sleep," she insists. "You won't be any use if you're exhausted."

He looks up at her, eyes narrowed.

"Uh," she says flatly. "I worded that badly? You're not useless, swear. You're great, actually, really helpful. Sorry I was messing with you earlier, you were doing a good job. He seems to be doing better."

And there's the apology. She's almost surprised it came out. Percy nods, slowly, looking down at Damas practically in her lap. He looks more comfortable, sure, but he's also hot to the touch. Is that a fever, or just the general temperature of the area?

It doesn't really matter. If it is a fever from his injury, they have nothing to fix it with.

"Really, thank-you," she says quietly. "I'm not sure we would have made it out of there without you."

"You would have. You're stronger than you think. Stronger than me."

"That's different," she murmurs. "I didn't... I didn't see anything, like you did."

Just the blood all over Damas, all over her hands. It was different. There's no denying that.

"What happened to Nicator?" she asks, continuing against her own better judgement. Percy is back to running his fingers along the ground, fidgeting endlessly. She wants to reach between them and at least take the tape away, take the only thing of value they have on them, before he ruins it.

She still wouldn't be able to blame him if he did.

"You don't have to tell me," she says. "I know it must be—"

"They shot him," he says. "I don't know who, just... shot him. Right in the head. We were just crossing the road to look for a car, he left me on the other side. I turned around and two seconds later..."

His finger on the ground are shaking, too; tapping back and forth only increases how bad it looks. He stick his index finger back in his mouth again, gnawing on the skin. She waits for it to bleed, but it doesn't.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, and he nods, an odd jerkiness to it. He really does look like a puppet, feel like one, something that's only operating because someone keeps jerking him back up on strings that are too long to properly maintain. Certainly he still shouldn't be going on, no one just does after they lose someone they care about. And right in front of them, too. Right in the head.

That amount of blood is even worse than what she was covered in.

"I think I'm gonna try and sleep," he decides, inhaling. "If that's okay."

"Of course. I'll wake you up in a few hours?"

He nods and rolls over, facing the other way. He curls up, into a ball nearly as small as Damas, and he shifts for several long, drawn-out minutes until he's comfortable. Even then she can't imagine he's satisfied, will stay still for very long, but at least he's trying.

Damas shifts and reaches a hand up in the middle of the quiet, squeezing around hers for only a moment before he curls it back up against his side, over his chest.

More awake than she knew, apparently. Or maybe not as comfortable as she thought.

It's a very small blip of comfort, but it's a knowing one. She feels the sadness settling over her like a blanket; he must be able to feel it, too.

Percy is finally quiet, finally still. It feels like a miracle.

It might be the only one they get, so she's grateful for it.

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16  
Applicant #17**

* * *

"Did you hear that?" Meris asks.

Nope. She absolutely did not hear anything. If Meris heard something, that's great for her, but Ria absolutely did not hear it.

She can hear Mel's breathing clear as day, one of the worst sounds she's ever heard. It almost doesn't even sound human, which is the worst bit. So far from the person she thought she might get to know, the one that seemed to have the slightest inclination of feelings towards her, even if they were just trying to protect her.

Meris stands up, grabbing the two arrows in each hand. They got them out, wiped mostly clean on the legs of Meris' pants, but there's still so much blood. It's all over the ground, dried-through, completely stained through his shirt, down his leg. He won't wear his sweater anymore because he's too hot, burning. His skin feels the same but he still shivers every other minute, whole body trembling.

Mel cracks his eyes open. "You shouldn't."

His voice is even worse than his breathing, hoarse and cracked. She winces at the sound alone.

They got the arrows out, stopped the worst of the bleeding, and he's still going downhill. He hasn't been able to stand since they got him laying down, when Meris dragged him back here in the first place. He seems more confused by the second, disoriented, wondering who they both are and what's happening.

This is the most clarity he's had all day.

"Don't go anywhere," Meris instructs, and disappears from their little hidey-hole into the night. Where the hell is she going to go? Into the ground?

Possibly.

Mel coughs, and she sees his lips wet with blood. He's already lost enough blood.

Wounds are bad. Shoulder wounds alright. Stomach wounds worse. She didn't put her hands anywhere near it, but if the arrow punctured something, could that be the reason? She brings herself back to biology, back to the human body, sitting in class with her diagrams. If the arrow punctured the abdominal wall, then inflammation of the peritoneum could be the cause. If it spreads, if they don't treat it...

An infection in the blood, or shock? Is his whole body going into sepsis and shutting down right before her?

"I wish one of you would kill me," he whispers. "It hurts. It fucking hurts."

He's confused, feverish, vomits up whatever they try to force-feed him. He's already dying.

He doesn't deserve to die.

"Everything's going to be fine," she says shakily. "It's fine."

If peritonitis really has set in, then re-cleaning the wound won't do anything. She doesn't know if she can bear to touch it, anyway, and Meris is gone. Hopefully not for good. They're been hearing noises for a while, but that could be anything.

Or it could be the people who attacked Mel. The ones that don't even feel like they exist.

She wants to believe he imagined it, but she can't. She's not that person.

"Ria," he rasps. "You know what's wrong, don't you?"

"Do you wanna try some more water?" she offers, looking away. "Water might help—"

"Water's not going to help," he says. "The peroxide, maybe. Do you think that would kill me?"

"No," she snaps. She doesn't think she's ever been that loud in her entire life. It would kill him, is the thing. Painfully, over several minutes, as his body burned from the inside out. "Don't touch it."

He waited until Meris was gone to start all of this. He's confused, disoriented, but not enough to lose the smarts of a dying man who just wants his life ended quicker. He's too nice for his own good. And he wouldn't let her suffer the way he's suffering now, no matter how much it hurt him to do so.

But she can't. She doesn't even want to go near him, the wound, all the blood.

If he wants to die at her hand, she'll have to go near all of that.

She makes her way closer to the entrance of the overhang, peeking out. There's no sign of Meris, just a clear trail of footprints leading away, higher up. She wouldn't go far, would she? The last time someone went too far ahead Meliodas came back half-dead, and now he was...

Nearing dead, probably.

She thinks it and hears the choking at nearly the same time.

She whirls, nearly stumbling in the dirt, to see the bottle pressed against his lips. The cloudy one, the one with the white label, definitely not the damn water.

He's not that disoriented. He knows exactly what he's doing.

She lunges for him and rips the bottle away, nearly knocking him over. He's managed to sit up, reach for the supplies. His stomach is bleeding again, oh God, it's bleeding again, way too much, not enough to survive. He's choking, wheezing, making terrible, awful noises that just keep getting worse.

Ria doesn't even bother capping the bottle, nor does she see where it lands when she drops it. Some of the peroxide splashes over her shoes, into the dirt. Mel is still choking, bleeding - there's blood coming out of his mouth, now, a practical fountain of it. It's burning him from the inside out, all the way down his throat, into his stomach...

He wanted a merciful death, a painless one.

This is not that.

Maybe she should have been more adamantly specific.

"Mel," she chokes. He flops back down, wheezing, bleeding from the mouth and the stomach. He's scrabbling at his throat, whimpering like a little animal as it burns through his esophagus, all the way down. His body was already shutting down, going into shock. There's no fixing this. What even happens when you drink peroxide, the amount that he did? His body is spasming, or maybe that's just him, the shock forcing him into movement when he should be doing nothing but sitting still. She grabs him by the shoulders and forces him down - shoulder's bleeding again too, slippery against her palm and she nearly backs up, but can't. There's bubbles coming out of his mouth, too, an entire flood of them seeping down from the corners of his lips The peroxide is filling his stomach with them, making them come out. He's choking and vomiting all at the same time, taking them back in when he can't manage to get it all out. Exhaling, inhaling, trying to breathe and _failing_.

He's going to die. He's going to die like this and it's fucking awful and she's not doing anything.

"Mel," she repeats, never more a futile word than that, what point is there in saying his name? He certainly can't hear her. His body is succumbing to the shock, the agony, the burning and the bubbles that are ripping through his throat like it's nothing.

 _Pass out_ , she begs. Pass out, just pass out, please just pass out—

He won't pass out.

She grabs for the empty supply bag behind her, fingers weak and sticky with all of the foam still dribbling from his mouth. It's awful. She can't look at it anymore. The bubbles are red with his blood, foaming white as they drip down his face onto his neck.

He just won't pass out.

She folds the bag over his face and _presses_. Immediately the foam begins to seep through the edges, the blood, but it only makes her press harder. Stop, just stop, it needs to stop, if he's out then it won't hurt so bad, then he'll die and this won't be happening anymore.

His spasming is growing weaker, his frantic panic edging off. There are desperate, lightning fast tears created jagged trails down her face, dripping over top of the bag, over his face which she can no longer see. All she can see is the blurry fringes of it, the blood that's on the ground, the foam slowly disappearing over the ground as it bubbles away.

Finally there's no movement under her hands, no struggling. She squeezes her eyes shut, keeps her hands pressed down where they are.

She can't look. She can't look anymore.

When she finally opens her eyes again everything is terrifyingly silent. There's no noise from outside, no sign of Meris.

She looks down. The bag is nearly entirely soaked through - there's almost an imprint of his face on the other side of it, the edges of his jaw and nose nearly pressing through. She can feel every ridge of his face underneath her hands, coated with something that isn't blood, definitely not blood, even though her hands are positively _soaked_ in it...

The number on the bracelet flicks from twenty to nineteen.

She lurches away, hands red as can be, and throws up everything she has in her.

* * *

 **Gideon Mallory, 16  
Applicant #20**

* * *

He's not sleeping, no sirree, when the number changes again.

He raises his arm up, above the starry sky. Sure enough, it's a nineteen. He stares at it for a moment, willing it to change again, backwards or forwards, before he lets his arm flop back down across his chest.

At least his stomach has finally stopped growling. He takes a sip of water, the smallest one possible, and lays back down. He's supposed to be keeping watch, whatever the fuck that means, exactly, but there's no harm in laying down. Sure, he can't see very well when he does, as the truck-bed conceals most of the outside world the second he settles down in the back of it, but oh well.

If Myra was so adamant about keeping watch then maybe she should be doing it herself instead of sleeping in the backseat, with an even shittier view than the one he has. Jahaira's in there, too; the rest of them are out here in the back, where there's at least a little bit more room, regardless of how uncomfortable it is.

He's still hungry, too. His stomach must just be lying to him, deluding him into thinking that a few flowers will be enough to sustain him.

With a sigh he clambers out of the truck-bed, hopping over the edge into the dirt below. He might as well do _something_ , or else he's going to fall asleep and get chewed out in the morning for it.

He doesn't even really want to be here with them all, still. It's dangerous to be with this many people, nearly three days in. Especially when they haven't done anything.

Having six of them is weird. It's like they're the Careers, except with more tears and terror, along with less weapons.

If they're the Careers, then they're shit ones. They certainly haven't killed anyone. Hell, they haven't even made a move to look for other people, whether to pick them up or kill them. Not that he wants to kill anyone, really. He's just resigned himself to it.

"Where are you going?" Emmi mumbles, into her arm or maybe Arwen's. It's too dark for him to tell.

"For a walk."

"Don't fall off a cliff."

"Touching," he replies, and heads for the edge of the cliff. It's a hell of a drop, made worse in the night. Survivable, maybe. He doesn't want to imagine how bad it would hurt, though. He backs up from it and heads along the edge, down the rocky cliff-side. That's where he found the sand verbena yesterday, without wandering all that far away at all. Maybe there's something else growing down there too. Something better.

Of all the things to do and he's off picking flowers. Connie would be so proud of him.

Not for much longer though, he imagines. God, if he kills someone... what would Connie think of him then? Would she even be able to look him in the eye anymore?

He wants to believe she would. They're too good of friends. He wouldn't abandon her for doing the same. Maybe she wouldn't for him.

He can imagine her staying, imagine the two of them gardening together in the back of his house, but he can also imagine what she'd be thinking the whole time. He would never be able to erase what he did from her mind.

And what about his parents, too? His parents and their healing hands, who save so many lives. They'd hate him.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, to nothing or no one in particular, but it makes him feel a bit better. It kills him just to say it. He doesn't think he'll be sorry about killing to survive, not if it's necessary, but his family would deserve an apology. The families of the people he'll inevitably kill will deserve it even more-so, if they ever find out what he's done.

Hopefully no one will. It would just be easier that way.

He finds another cluster of the verbena, just creeping over the edge of the cliff, and begins plucking it out of the dirt, shoving handfuls of the stems and roots into his pockets. Even Jupiter hadn't looked too enthused about eating them, but they had. Better than starving.

"Seriously, what the hell are you doing?" Emmi asks, and he nearly rolls over the edge, grabbing onto the rock to steady himself.

"Warn a guy, would you?"

"Sorry," she says. "Can't wait until morning to pick more flowers?"

"You didn't have to get up and follow me."

"No, but Jupiter would be sad if you just disappeared in the middle of the night, so I thought I'd check on you."

"Again, oddly touching."

"Don't get ahead of yourself, I never said _I_ would be sad," she points out.

"Thanks," he deadpans. "Seriously, you can go back to sleep. I'm not a duckling you need to herd."

"I don't think you could be herded," she says. "You seem very difficult."

"I retract any and all words I said about anything touchy-feely," he informs her. "You're not going to leave until I come back, are you?"

She's standing over him, hovering, watching. Looking around, sometimes, over the cliff and off into the distance, like she's trying to be nonchalant about it. She's not doing very well in that regard.

He stands back up with another handful of the verbena and stuffs it in his pocket alongside the others, nudging her back up the path. Better to follow her back to the car than refuse. Certainly then she'd get Arwen to deal with him, Arwen who would probably sooner kick him until he came back than try to talk reason with him.

"You know, your raging crush on Arwen is weird," he tells her. "You seem much nicer than she is."

It's dark - he can't see the blush that no doubt creeps over her cheeks, but she makes a grand show of looking away from him, so he can no longer see her face. "Jupiter seems too nice for you, too."

"Hey, my best friend at home is really nice, and she likes me just fine."

"You have a best friend?"

He nudges her again, just enough that she stumbles forward a pace, not too close to the cliff. "Most people do."

"I don't, not really. I just have a lot of friends."

"Well, now you have Arwen. Though I'm not sure I should be considering that _friends_."

Emmi mutters something, a foul word or two he reckons, and clambers back up into the bed of the truck, waiting for him to follow suit. She lays back down next to Arwen, no surprise, but he also lays back down to Jupiter, too, so who is he to talk? They just remind him of Connie, even if you exclude the whole missing limb thing. They're different, but also so alike. It's a nice little reminder of home, a comfort.

He doesn't tell Emmi that even Connie at first didn't seem like a feasible relationship to have, that he didn't think she was worth his time. She just weaseled her way in like so many other people never bothered to.

"Night," Emmi says, enclosing her face back into the safe darkness of her arms. He waves vaguely in her direction, looking at the bracelet again. He wonders if Emmi even noticed. Probably not. She would have mentioned it.

He knows. No one else.

It's a small mercy. No one else will realize until the morning, or until he gets too tired to stay awake and has to rouse someone else to keep watch.

Until then, they can live in their relative peace.

* * *

 **Aelia Akamine, 25  
Former New Haven Project Member**

* * *

She hasn't properly slept in days.

It's not like she really knew those kids at the end of the day. She had the delight, the privilege, to know them for a short time, to keep watch over them. It didn't feel like a job. It felt like a blessing.

And now they were gone. Just like that.

It still didn't make sense to her. It was what kept her awake at night, what kept the dreams from taking over. Dreams would be easier. More beautiful.

Better than the nightmare that existed when she woke up, the mourning. The burnt wreckage of a hovercraft just outside of District One, turned to ash. She had seen so many shots of it on the news, from every angle. It was ash, nothing more, but she could no longer bear to look.

Ash and the remains of twenty-four children, their pilot. People she had come to know over a few short days.

She calls Nyko just after three in the morning, sitting on the ottoman at the end of her bed. Even a mug of chamomile tea can't seem to help, nor the blanket draped over her shoulders.

"You need to sleep, you know," Nyko says, instead of a more formal hello. They passed that after the first day.

"You're awake, too."

"Because my phone was ringing."

"Oh," she manages. "Sorry. Go back to sleep."

"No, it's alright. What's wrong?"

"What's not wrong?" she asks in turn, and he sighs on the other end. He probably needs the sleep; he's more involved in the aftermath of all of this than she is.

But she needs a voice, and the rest of her friends, her family... they don't understand it at all.

Those kids are all gone, and she feels like it's her fault.

"Something gone wrong in a hovercraft isn't your fault, you know," he says. "You may think it is, but it was beyond our control. Especially yours."

"But what about the pilot? Are we sure he was qualified? Renette even said the distress signal seemed delayed, if something was seriously wrong. What if—"

"There are no what-if's. He had thirty years of experience. Sometimes things just happen."

"Then why are you still here? Why haven't you gone home?"

"The President called a meeting with the four of us tomorrow. They sent Ridge home, yesterday; I guess they don't care what he has to say about it. We were the four in charge, Renette in particular. They want to know if something could have been done."

"But you just said we couldn't have."

"I know, but maybe Tate wants to hear that from our own mouths. I don't know any better than you do, Aelia."

She curls up her legs even further and takes another sip of her tea. It feels like her stomach is in even more knots than before, like the tea is creating a tidal wave.

"I'm worried," she admits. "If they're going to look for someone to blame..."

"It won't fall on you," he assures. "If anything, it'll be the four of us."

"That isn't any better!" she snaps. "I don't want the four of you taking blame for something you didn't do."

"Well, someone will have to," he murmurs. "Their families are going to incite something if a scapegoat for this isn't found. Tate will blame us if he has to, anything to keep the country under control. That's the President's job. It's better than another rebellion."

Is it, though? She's not so sure. Even a rebellion as small as the last one still killed so many people, still saw so many causalities. It ended her dreams of becoming an escort, too.

It also thrust her into something she thought was so much better, following in her mother's footsteps, almost, of becoming a teacher.

She had found a place to fit after nine long years, and it was gone already.

"Go to sleep, Aelia," Nyko instructs. "I'll call you tomorrow after the meeting, if you want. We can talk more then, meet up somewhere if you want."

"Please do," she murmurs, clutching the blanket tighter. She feels like a child, upset by a bad dream or the prospect of a monster hiding in her closet.

"I will. Good-night, Aelia."

"Night," she whispers, but he's already hung-up. He can manage to sound nonchalant while speaking to her on the phone, but she has no doubt that Nyko is equally worried. She hopes to see him tomorrow, to see how bad this has gotten to him. Hopefully she's not the only one with circles under her eyes.

That's not the only reason, either. It's easy enough to lie on the phone, too. Nyko is a good person, a thoughtful one. She wants so desperately to believe that.

Looking someone in the eyes is almost always a dead give-away.

She hopes that she can see the truth in his tomorrow.

* * *

Realized I didn't have anything down here about two seconds before publishing so this is genuinely just space filler.

Hope everyone is doing alright!

Until next time.


	22. Too Close To The Sun

XIX: Day Three, Dawn.

* * *

 **Noelani Westmoreland, 16  
Applicant #11**

* * *

"I feel like I'm on fire," Jay complains.

He's walking like he's about to pass out, which she supposes is fair. She's just as hot, and the backs of her knees are sun-burnt to a crisp. How does that even get burnt?

"You look like it, too," she informs him. His face is beet red - she can't tell if it's from the heat as they walk, or if it's a more permanent addition to his skin.

Heat exhaustion and sun stroke are common things in Four, more common than most places, probably. Maybe some of the outer Districts, too, where they still spend so much time outside, but it seems like the people in Four just don't seem to know any better. They dive into the waves and let their skin freckle under the skin and several hour later they're toast.

Literally.

Six is pretty overcast, if she remembers correctly, the by-product and aftermath of all of the factories spewing out their smoke and exhausts all day long. It's gotten better since the rebellion, but she still can't imagine that it's anywhere near perfect. It's the same way that Four will always smell of fish, no matter what other things people begin to do on its shores.

Jay has looked terrible since about five minutes in, but she was initially blaming that on the shock.

Not so much that, anymore.

"We should stop soon," she suggests. "Find some shade, maybe an overhang or a cave?"

"A cave," he mutters. "Great."

"It's better than being in the sunlight all day. We should stick to walking at night, before one of us passes out."

"I feel like I'm halfway there already."

"Then yeah, we'll stop. Topher!"

Topher's head pops up over the rise ahead, and even from this distance she can imagine his raised eyebrows. The mountains have been growing steadily for a while, now, and now they're maybe an hour's walk from the heart of them. The ground is already uneven, rising and falling in unsteady waves.

"If you guys see somewhere good to stop, let me know! Preferably with some shade!"

He salutes her and goes skidding back down the hill, out of view. Hopefully Tarquin heard, too. She doesn't exactly trust her brother and his spot-picking abilities.

"I'm about to take that metal thing and drink the inside of a cactus," Jay informs her, and she hugs it closer to her side.

"Cacti aren't good for drinking."

"They do it all the time in movies."

"Yeah, in _movies_ ," she repeats. "That's not actually a safe thing you can do in real life."

He _humphs_ , looking put-off, and continues trudging along, getting a good few paces ahead of her. They should have stayed at the well they found in the dead of night. It must have been connected to some sort of reservoir, and even though the bucket had been cracked and broken, spewing discolored water out of several holes, she had still drank her fill. They all had, several buckets over the better part of an hour.

They had agreed that staying in one spot wasn't a good idea, but now she wasn't so certain. They should have at least fought to get the bucket loose, so that they could use it to transport water in the future. They could have patched it up.

Maybe if they find their way into the mountains they'll find more water. They'll have to, if they want to survive.

Hopefully it's cleaner, too. She still feels a little bit nauseous. She's not sure what it could be from; the heat exhaustion, the lack of food, the dirty water? All of those things?

Probably all of them.

She clutches her metal bar closer to her chest and hurries to catch up to Jay, who's stumbling his way down the rise after them. Tarquin and Topher both are a little ways in the distance, making their way through the dips in the valley, steadily climbing higher.

"Won't it be hotter the higher up we go?" Jay pants.

"Pretty sure it's the opposite."

He sighs. He's soaked through with sweat, so she doesn't even want to imagine how tragic she looks, clutching onto their only item, a bar of unknown origin that could or could not be used as a weapon, if it comes to that.

Finally he bends over, hands on his knees, closed eyes pointed towards the ground. "Is this what it feels like to almost pass out?"

She stands over him. It's a futile, stupid amount of shade, her leaning across him, but it's something. "Probably. Just take it easy for a minute, and then we'll walk again. We're almost to the shade."

How grateful is he that she pulled him along now, in the middle of this? Certainly not very grateful at all, if he dies of heatstroke sometime in the next few hours. She shields her eyes from the sun and follows the two boys up ahead until she can no longer see them, their shapes obscured by the uneven rock that's beginning to tower into the sky.

"My head hurts," Jay says. "Actually my everything hurts."

His everything wouldn't be hurting if she had just left him back where they'd started. He'd be dead, probably. It would be six instead of five.

She's glad it's not.

"Alright, a few more seconds and then we're going. Standing out here isn't doing you any good."

"Being _alive_ isn't doing me any good," he fires back, but doesn't protest or pull away when she tugs insistently at his arm, pulling him to the bottom of the hill.

"I thought Tarquin and Topher went straight," he continues, eyes narrowed. She looks ahead, towards where they disappeared.

"They did?"

He nods off to their right, to footprints winding through the dirt away from them, a completely different direction. There's several of them, many pairs overlapping one another.

"You think there's other people around here?"

"Not recently?" he guesses. "Those look old. Like it rained and they were walking through mud, I guess?"

It does look that way, but it hasn't rained since they've been out here. The Sentinels, maybe, but why would they just have been wandering around on foot when they have other ways? It's not safe out here, even from the temperature. They wouldn't risk that.

"This is creeping me the fuck out," Jay says flatly. "Kill me, why don't you."

"Jay," she sighs, the rest of her sentence disappearing into thin air at the scream that suddenly ripples over-head, a broken howl of pain, like a wounded animal. Like something worse than that. Underneath her hand Jay goes stiff all over, feet pressing down into the dirt.

Trying not to run like she wants to run.

Because that's her brother up ahead, or Tarquin. It's one of them, and she can't tell who.

It's them, and something gone horribly, horribly wrong.

* * *

 **Meris Loucare, 17  
Applicant #15**

* * *

She's very much just numb, at this point, in every respect other than the cold.

She's dizzy, disoriented. Every point in her body is cramping with the heat. Everything _hurts_ in an odd sort of way, even breathing.

Leaving is the hardest part of all, but she can only sit there for so long with Ria's sobbing echoing off the walls, with Mel's body.

If only Ria didn't come after her.

That's how the story goes, though. Ria retches and cries and makes Meris take the bag because it's soaked in God only knows what other than blood, she didn't ask and doesn't plan on it, and then comes with her. To think yesterday that Ria would have gone nowhere without Mel, certainly not along with her.

Yesterday she hadn't though Ria would kill _anyone_ though, let alone him, and yet here they are.

She's still not sure what to believe, really. Between the spilled, now-empty bottle of peroxide and Ria's hysterical crying, she could put it together. Some of it, anyway. At first she thought Ria had forced it on him, killed him in cold blood, but she sort of did that anyway, didn't she?

This way it just looks like more of an accident. Like Ria was trying to stop his burning, his choking, and he was dead underneath her hands before she realized he had too little air left in his lungs to begin with.

She still killed him though. Accident or not. She knows it, Ria knows it. Maybe the Sentinels know it too, with the tracking information they're receiving, but certainly no one else.

She almost wants to hit her, or scream at her, but clamps her jaws shut and keeps her eyes fixed forward, keeps moving with Ria ambling along behind her, holding onto Mel's sweater. She's just the only thing around, now. She doesn't really want to hurt her. She just needs something to get her frustration out on, someone to vent to, and Mel's not here to listen, now.

Mel's not here because he's dead, which is a fact that she really needs to quit reminding herself of.

"You know, you're going to die if you keep that sweater on," she calls back without looking, focused on the ground at her feet. If anything Ria has retreated even further into it, trying to crawl fully inside of it. To Meris she would just look like one cozy little camper if she wasn't certainly going to sweat to death.

She's not going to get sunburnt, that's for certain. How far that will get her, Meris has no idea.

Ria's catching up to her before she can really tell if she wants that or not, arms still wrapped over her chest, clutching the sweater.

"I don't have any other shirt on under this."

"Because I care, right?" she scoffs, but it ends the idea of a conversation about her sweating to death. Like Ria of all people is going to wander around the desert half-naked. She probably rather _would_ sweat to death.

Meris just thought she would say something, you know, before she falls over dead.

She can feel Ria's eyes on her, flicking up and down like she can't decide whether or not to look. The bag hanging off her shoulder is making it difficult to get a good look back, her eyes straying to all the blood every time she tries.

"I never said I was sorry," Ria says, just loud enough to hear. When Meris turns to glance back at her she looks away, off into the distance.

"For what?"

"You know..."

"Do I?"

She stops. Ria nudges into her side and jumps back like she's been burned, retracting her arm away from where it brushes against the stained-through bag.

"For what?" she repeats, until Ria looks up at her once again. She feels like she's scolding a little puppy, still unfamiliar with and afraid of it's new owner.

Mel would know how to deal with this. Mel is also extremely dead.

There's another reminder for you.

"I wasn't really friends with him," Ria explains. "He was trying, maybe, I guess... I don't know. But you were, or at least you seemed like it, and I did something stupid because I panicked and I wasn't watching him. He— he's dead because of me. You know that."

She stares. It's hard to believe that Ria's only a year younger than her, maybe even less. She seems so much more fragile than sixteen.

"I'm sorry," she continues, rambling on. "If he hadn't come back and grabbed me he probably wouldn't be dead, or if I hadn't grabbed the supplies that I did—"

"Just stop," she insists. "Stop. It wasn't all on you. Someone else attacked him. Something..."

She trails off. Something _what_? They still don't know. Mel only saw a flash of them, a person he insisted wasn't a Sentinel, and that was the extent of the information they got out of him, before he effectively ended his own life, or convinced Ria to finish him off by accident.

"It's not all on you," she finishes. Present tense. If she hadn't left the two of them alone, he could still be alive. There's no way to know.

So his death is on her hands, too.

"I wanna know what it was," Ria murmurs. "Who, I guess. I mean I don't, but... I do."

It's the most Ria's spoken in the past two days, and she's not sobbing anymore, which is a win in Meris' book. Her face is still puffy, eyes rimmed red, but she can't expect a miracle overnight.

Not anymore.

She looks out over the desert, the flatness of it all. They've left most of the hills and mountains behind. Being out in the open where they can see things coming is clearly the safer option, after what happened to Mel when they couldn't properly see what was going on around them.

It may not be the smartest one, though, or the one she wants to take.

Because like Ria, she wants to know as well.

* * *

 **Faye Ackerman, 12  
Applicant #7**

* * *

"Why are you stopping?" she asks, hitting Sabre in the back of the shoulder. She nearly knocks him off the bike.

He flinches, too, but that doesn't stop her from unwinding her arms from around his waist and clambering off into the dirt. In front of them is an absolute behemoth of a structure, a monolith of rock that almost looks black in the sunlight next to the pale ground.

There are mountains and hills in every direction, but this mass of towering rock, split into two distinct chunks, is alone in the middle of nowhere.

"That's pretty cool," she decides, flattening a hand against one of the boulders. It towers into the sky, at least fifty or sixty feet into the air. It would be easy enough to scramble up. Most of the rock, if not all of it, is connected, jutting out in a few specific places. It's hot to the touch, but not unbearable. It's more used to the sun than she is.

"It's a rock," Sabre says quietly.

"A very big rock," she says, and clambers up it a ways. A very big rock, and an absolutely amazing lookout point. It'll be too hard to take the bike into the mountains with the terrain, so they don't have that choice. They could sit up here and see everything for miles, get a little bit of warning if something was going to happen.

"Be careful," Sabre says as she continues climbing. It really is easy, for someone who has so little experience with it. Nolan likes climbing, though he never offers to take her to the gym with his friends to do so. It's not that hard.

It's like climbing the spine of some massive, prehistoric creature. There's some bits where she can almost walk, even if it's at an angle, continuing her way up. The whole thing is topped with one rock, bigger than the rest, that pokes out from the rest of them, pointed towards the sky. It's tall, too high to just step onto, but she finds a few easy handholds and hauls herself up, listening to the sounds of Sabre's feet behind her. He's climbing after her, no doubt, judging by the previous concern in his voice.

She finally hauls herself to the very top, remaining in a crouch. Now that she's up here it looks so much higher than it did when she was standing on the ground. She stands up, slowly, with her arms held out.

"Faye," Sabre says slowly.

"Don't be such a baby," she insists. "Get up here. There's plenty of room."

It's not hard to balance. The rock up here isn't flat, per say, but it's plenty wide for at least two of them to stand on.

Sabre's acting like this is looking death in the face, like this is the worst thing they could possibly be doing. She really wonders about him. He never looks sure about anything, never looks like he has a concrete direction in mind. He also doesn't look like he trusts her yet either, but she could say the same about him.

This is easy. Too easy. Sabre's just too boring to get that.

His hands poke over the top of the rock and she shuffles over, until he crawls up beside her. He stays there, crouched, looking in the opposite direction.

"See? Pretty cool, right?"

He nods, slowly, although doesn't look all that impressed. It's such a nice view, such an interesting find. It's certainly something to appreciate in the midst of all the other chaos. Sabre just doesn't seem to get that.

"Don't be such a stick in the mud," she chastises. "It's cool, c'mon."

"Sure," he admits. "I just don't think we should be taking any risks."

"What _risks_?" she asks incredulously.

"One of us could fall."

"Yeah, but we won't," she scoffs. "What, do you think I'm going to push you, or something?"

It was a joke, even though it wasn't a great one, but Sabre looks up at her like he didn't take it that way. His hands tighten around the lip of the rock, to the point where his knuckles go white. The stone beneath them is probably starting to burn his palms.

Faye never liked to chastise herself on her charisma and humor, but sometimes it didn't come off the way she intended it to.

"I wasn't thinking that, no," he says, but now there's a slightly unsure tinge to his voice, like he's confused about that himself.

"You need to be more confident in _something,_ at least," she insists. "It's tiring. Why would you think I'm going to push you?"

"I don't know you all that well," he admits. "It's certainly possible, isn't it?"

"No," she snaps. "No, it wasn't."

The wasn't slips out before she means it too, and his eyes widen a bit. The past tense is dangerous.

He stands up, arms slightly outstretched. She's suddenly reminded of the fact that even though Sabre isn't anything impressive, he's still bigger than she is. One wrong move and one of them could indeed fall, the way he said.

She just doesn't understand it, how someone three years older than her could be so confused, so lost, about nothing more than themselves. Certainly in this relationship one would expect him to be the confident one, the one with a firm head on his shoulders. In a normal situation he would be the leader and she the follower. He would be pushing and she would be following.

Not likely.

"I can't just change myself," he says quietly.

"Yeah, well try," she insists. "Because it's annoying."

It's harsh. Harsher than she really means. She'll apologize later once she's not stuck up here with him. She edges around him, brushing against his shoulder, and he even grabs onto her arm to keep her steady, to hold her firm as she crouches back down, letting her legs slip over the side. He looms behind her like a monolith of his own, not nearly as tall or as impressive, not standing out like this rock below them does.

Her foot slips out of the first hold she finds, not even halfway over the edge. Sabre's arm tightens as she scrabbles for a grip, looking for better purchase. There isn't any. All of the grooves she could see so easily on the way up aren't visible anymore, not from this angle.

"Shit," she mutters, a nasty word, something her mother would chastise her for, something Esma would tell on her for.

They're not here right now. Because she doesn't think Esma or her mother would let go.

And that's exactly what Sabre does.

He lets go. She feels his fingers slip away from her arm, almost _uncertain_ , so Sabre-like that it's almost painful.

She flails back as she slips over the edge, arms searching for something to hold onto. Her hand catches his ankle; she holds tight and pulls, trying to bring him closer. He stumbles to his knees, nearly crashing over the edge after her. He can't seem to right himself, either, can't find any steady ground.

She's slipping, too. She's slipping.

Her hand finds something - hair, she realizes, as her other fingers lose their grip. She gets a handful of his hair in-between her fingers, nails catching in the dips and grooves of his ears, pulling. Desperate for something to hold onto, to keep her from falling. Something _rips_ , she feels it, the same way she feels something hot and wet splatter over her hand. Blood, she knows, blood from his ear as her nails tear through his skin, and bits of metal earring tinker away down past her, bouncing off the rock and disappearing.

He yanks himself away. All she has left is the blood.

And then she's falling.

It looked so high, up there. It looks just as high now, as she tumbles head over heels off the top rock. Her ankle and foot catch against something - a snap there, as her bone protrudes out through the shin. She knows it, as the pain registers. It flares through her entire body. She only flips over one time in the air, and all she can see is one last bit of rock, right below her. Right where she's going to land.

She even thinks she hears a sharp, vicious _crack_ , before everything fades away.

* * *

 **Jupiter Valentine, 18  
Applicant #9**

* * *

"Pretty day," they hum.

Myra hums something, too, though there's no words in the mix. They take it as agreement, because anything else seems worse.

It really does seem like an every-day, happy coincidence. Sitting perched on the edge of the cliff, slightly shaded by the wide frame of the truck behind them. Mal's interrupting the scene a bit, kicking the dirt around behind them, but at least he's being quiet about it.

Arwen and Emmi are talking behind them, quiet murmurs that Jupiter can't quite make out, and Jahaira is off snapping pictures some fifty feet away. Click after click after click.

"Should she really be doing that?" Emmi asks.

"What, taking pictures?" Myra clarifies. "Sure?"

"It just feels like she's deluding herself, is all. It's nice, I'm glad she can do that, it just doesn't seem very... productive."

"And anything else we're doing right now is?" Myra fires back. "It's helping her. Just leave her be."

Emmi wasn't bugging Jahaira, is the thing. Merely stating a fact that even Jupiter believes, though they'll never say it aloud. Jahaira does appear to be deluding herself into some sort of greater mission, like she's off on a field assignment taking pictures for some sort of famous magazine. Something about desert vacations that only the rich can afford.

Toes nudge them in the back and they turn around to look at Mal, who jerks his head in the opposite direction, asking them to follow. They clamber up and follow after him, out of earshot from the others.

"What?" they ask.

"Nothing. They're just worrying me."

"Why?"

"I just don't like the look of the inevitable Myra and Jahaira versus Emmi and Arwen. I don't want to wind up caught in the middle of it."

 _And I don't want you to be either,_ he leaves out, although they hear it loud and clear.

"Do you think it's going to come to that?"

"I don't think, I know. Look at them."

They don't need to look. Emmi and Myra are talking again - bickering, really. They almost wish they could press their hands over their ears and ignore it, but that would be pot calling the kettle black. They can't very well speak of Jahaira doing something when they're trying to do the same.

"Guys," they chastise, but both Emmi and Myra very clearly, and easily, tune them out. Not that anyone's really listened to them since the beginning save for Mal. It's clear - their opinion isn't valued, their uses, few as they are. They're seen as the weakest link. Despite the arm issue at least Emmi's got a mouth on her - they can't very well say that about themselves.

"Jahaira!" Emmi calls. "Want to go look for water, or something?"

Myra actually reaches back to nudge her in the leg, and isn't gentle about it either. "Quit it out. If you want to go do something so badly, I'll come with you."

"I don't want you to come with me."

Next to them, Mal sighs and scrubs a hand over his very dirty face. They hadn't noticed it until now; they wonder if they look the same. Considering Emmi and Myra certainly do, and even Jahaira looks a shade off from a distance, they'd bet on it.

"We'll just leave, then," Myra decides. "We shouldn't have stayed in one place this long anyway. The Sentinels are going to come after us sooner or later."

"Who died and made you leader?" Emmi asks. "There's signs of life around here. Plants, clearly, and we've seen enough birds. If we can find water..."

"We have water, in case you hadn't noticed."

The bickering dissolves into something even louder, so this time they do briefly press their hands over their ears. They have water, yes. Not very much of it, and they're starving to boot. If Mal can find plants, and if the flocks of birds they keep seeing overhead are any sign, then Emmi's right. There probably is water around here.

"I'm with her," Mal announces. "No point in leaving. We have the high ground - we'll see them coming, if they are. And we do need to look for water."

Myra shoots him a glare, one that's positively foul.

"Don't look at me," Arwen says flatly. "You know who I'm siding with."

Myra has looked very tired these past few days, and contemplative. Trying to plan their next move, no doubt, but she hasn't done any of that. She hasn't even spoken much. Now she looks more tired, and far more annoyed.

Like Mal said, it's worrying.

Myra also has the keys, although they know more than one of them here can drive. It doesn't seem likely that she'll give them up in a circumstance such at this one, when everyone seems at such odds. They would sooner expect someone to suddenly drop dead, like it came out of thin air.

Jahaira finally comes trotting back, holding her camera tight to her abdomen. She glances between the five of them, only half-focused until she steps directly into the middle of the thickness in the air, where it wraps around her, too.

"What's going on?"

"Do you wanna leave?" Myra asks, no explanation.

"Uh... if everyone else does, I guess? I could find something new to take pictures of."

"Enough with the damn pictures," Emmi snaps. "I'm not trying to be a dick, here, but it's not helping."

"It's helping me—"

"And no one else, got it. As this entire _alliance_ seems to be doing."

"Hey, I fed you," Mal protests, but it falls on deaf ears. They expected as much. No one cares what the two of them have to say. They're just the stragglers, the ones picked up at the last moment, a nearly forgotten about decision. And now they're the bystanders to all of this. They almost wish they had done as Mal wanted and stayed alone, forged their own way.

"If it's helping her, then leave it be," Myra protests. "Just shut the fuck up about it."

"Because a few pictures are going to fix this, right? Can't wait until someone finds _that_ on your corpse a year from now."

The conversation dissolves into something Jupiter can't even understand, they're all talking so fast. They're all involved, and a hell of a lot closer together than they were before. Too close, in fact. They don't like the sudden proximity between the four of them, not when Mal seems so convinced that they'll come to blows, eventually. Even the two of them have gotten closer, drifting closer to the confrontation. Maybe if they can get closer they can get in-between them, stop the inevitable from happening.

Inevitable is inevitable, though.

"Can you guys back up?" they plead. Away from the cliff's edge, at least. Further in nothing too bad can happen. No one has any weapons on hand.

Besides Mal, anyway, who's clutching the baseball bat with increasingly tight fingers. They put a hand on his arm only to feel every muscle locked tight in anticipation, clearly waiting for something...

They don't back up from the cliff, and that's what Jupiter was fearing all along.

They're not sure who throws the first punch. It's a mess, like a group of high school seniors fighting in the back field after school, though they'd know nothing about that. It's what they always imagined high school to be like, what they dreamed about.

Why did they ever dream about this?

They see a whirlwind of arms, hear a few furious yells. It seems to make sense, now, the two of them. Myra and Emmi just weren't meant to be, that's all this is, all it ever will be. Mal grabs them and tugs them back several paces, wrapping his arms around them to keep them from getting any closer. They allow themselves to be tugged away, and Mal spins them around.

There's a scream. It's not angry. Terrified, amidst the sounds of a bit of tumbling rock.

And fading, very rapidly. Fading into nothing.

Silence.

They close their eyes, even though they feel Mal turn back, still holding onto them.

"Fuck," he whispers. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"

He lets go, and it's only the sound of his feet turning towards the cliff's edge that makes her force her eyes open. Not Mal too, they plead. Not him.

Mal makes it to the cliff ledge unscathed, standing at the brittle edge, looking down. Myra is looking down in shock, too, hands held up, slowing backing up. Jahaira is already half on the ground, hands over her mouth, and Arwen is a statue, frozen in horror, something in her trembling, maybe all of her, and Emmi...

There's no Emmi.

Emmi's gone.

* * *

 **Soran Faerber, 18  
Applicant #8**

* * *

He's getting sick of driving.

Issue is there's not much else to do. Nothing, really, except drive on and on and on with someone in the passenger seat who he can't let take over because he fears they'll crash.

Icarus admitted it himself. It's not rude to say so if he admitted it.

Icarus has also been asleep for most of the last day, though he blames that on how close he must have come to heatstroke, wandering around in the desert after them. It's one of the only reasons he let him back in the car; he was too disoriented to do much of anything, after Trojan. Much too confused.

Beyond that he doesn't have a reason. He's not sure having one would make things any better.

Now Icarus is awake, it appears, for good, and he's just waiting for the choir to start back up. It's going to, any minute now. Icarus has more words in him for any given situation than people do bones in their body. It's truly a marvel.

He glances at him more than once, still slumped against the window, staring aimlessly out across the desert. Finally Icarus looks back.

"What?" he snaps. "You're creepy as fuck."

He shrugs and goes back to full-focus on the drive, even though he doesn't really need to. He's mostly just driving in circles, a bit wider each time until he catches sight of something interesting. It's better than risking hitting one of the boundaries. He doesn't really have any desire to know what the Sentinels will do if they dare cross them. Kidava and Trojan were one thing - he's not willing to bet his skills against them, let alone Icarus'.

Icarus sighs, loud enough to wake the dead. He looks over again to see Icarus staring dead-faced at the bracelet, lips pursed.

"How long has it been at eighteen?"

He raises his own arm, lets go of the steering wheel to look himself. It has indeed ticked down to eighteen, sometime in the last hour. He knows he looked a little while ago, after Icarus fell asleep as the sun rose. How long has it been like that, though? Since then, or just a few minutes?

"Wonder who it was," he hums.

"I fucking don't," Icarus says. "I don't want to know who it is."

"Who it _was_ ," he repeats, correcting him. "Past tense."

"Like I said, creepy," Icarus says flatly. "Then again, you murdered someone yesterday, so why am I even surprised?"

"You did it first."

"Can we please get over that?"

"No," he decides. "It was funny."

"Funny?" Icarus asks incredulously. "Are you serious?"

"Yeah. Your face was pretty funny. You did it and then you looked shocked when there was suddenly a body at your feet. Like whoops, shit, didn't mean to do that, except I totally did!"

"He was going to kill me if I didn't do it first."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do," Icarus insists. "Just... the look in his eyes. He was totally going to kill me."

Soran throws the car into a sliding halt so fast that he nearly hurts his own neck. Icarus grabs his own seat with an alarmed little noise, something far more innocent than anything else that's come out of his mouth thus far. He swivels in the seat to stare at him.

Icarus stares back, and then very slowly reaches back to push the lock on the door down, like he's afraid he's going to get shoved out again.

The car's stopped, now, but that's beyond the point.

"Do you know what I'm thinking right now?"

"No?" Icarus questions. "Do I want to?"

He rolls his eyes and pushes down on the gas again, urging the car into a slower crawl. "See what I mean? You have no idea what people are thinking just by the look in their eyes. If you did, you'd have probably leapt out of the car just then."

"If you were going to kill me you'd have done it from the get-go," Icarus grumbles, looking none too happy about it. He crosses his arms over his chest like a petulant child, looking properly annoyed. It's funny, how things can change so easily like that. "You don't know everything, you know. You should start acting that way."

"I know more than you, though."

"Like what?"

"Lots of things. And maybe you should consider deferring to the other person in the car with even a little bit of training."

"It's not like you're a Career," Icarus says, waving his hands around. "You're not."

"Not technically, but a year and a half of training is better than none."

This time it's Icarus that swivels around to look at _him_ , eyes slowly widening. "Mel said you'd lived in one for eleven years."

"True," he offers. "My mom died six months after we got there. The Academy took me in for the year and a half they had until it burned down to the ground."

"Oh, God," Icarus moans. "I _am_ in the car with a Career. This is the worst."

"You have a very odd definition of worst."

"Well, it's not like you're going to use it to help me, are you?"

"You never know." Soran shrugs. "May just surprise you."

Icarus rolls his eyes. "Academy kids are the worst. Especially the ones that lived in the dorms."

"You wouldn't be yourself if you didn't vaguely hate the homeless, would you?"

"I do not _vaguely hate the homeless."_

"Fully, then."

Icarus opens and closes his mouth a few times like a dying fish before he tugs one of the water bottles out of the glove-box, busying himself with taking little sip after sip of it. It's more than he should probably drinking when they haven't found anymore, but he really doesn't have the energy to stop him. It's keeping him quiet, after all. Who knows how many more of those moments he'll have in the future.

In the future, like this is going to be the way things are for a while. Icarus doesn't really seem scared of him, not properly, and he hasn't felt the urge to get rid of him again. Company's nice, even if it's annoying. And he's been sleeping a lot.

Icarus may not be able to figure out what's going on in Soran's eyes, but he knows exactly what's going on in his. It's just the beginning of something, a barely-there flicker, but Soran can see it.

He can see it, and it's definitely not hatred.

He knew it when Icarus got back in the car after him, and he still knows it now.

It's funnier than he'd like to admit. And damn, is it going to be good.

* * *

So, someone's dead... but who? Next chapter we'll backtrack just a bit and see just who bit the dust. For now it's just best guesses, so let me know what you think! Or who you think.

Until next time.


	23. A Vicious Cycle

XX: Day Three, Dawn & Afternoon.

* * *

 **Sabre Hennedige, 15**  
 **Applicant #6**

* * *

He's not sure how long he stands there.

He balances on top of the monolith for a very long while, certainly. Enough for the sun to fully rise. Brighter and brighter, until it hurts his eyes to look. He presses a hand to his bleeding ear to find two long tears towards the bottom of the lobe, and two of the little hoops there missing. Only the third remains, and the few he has along the very top ridge.

The number on the bracelet says nineteen. It still says nineteen just like before.

So, Faye's not-dead. Faye's just fell... because of him?

No, not because of him. He thought she was stabilized.

But he knows that's not the truth, either. She was so frantic in her movements, worried about the prospect of falling. She wouldn't have grabbed at him so desperately if she was stable, wouldn't have hurt him the way she did. There's a little bit of blood on the rock underneath him, and pooling on his fingers where he prods at the injury, gently.

Faye's alive.

He keeps pressure against his ear and slowly lowers himself down, off in search of his missing ears.

He takes his time picking his way down to the ground, painfully slow. He doesn't want to fall like she did.

 _Dropped_ , his brain says. _You dropped her._

He didn't, though. She lost her balance before he did anything.

She was going to fall anyway. And she had acted like she owned him, telling him to be more confident herself, like that was a switch he could just turn off and on. Like how it used to be.

Not one owned him. He was his own person - he had made sure of that, even if he didn't know what to do with himself most days. He wasn't about to let Faye take that control away from him the way it seemed she was trying so desperately to.

So maybe, possibly, he let go with the intention that the fall would kill her. Maybe he did.

He's not so sure, yet.

He gets down to the ground, staring at the dirt with an intensity that screams _earrings gone for good_. They could be anywhere; chances are they're still up somewhere on the rock. They didn't fall the same way she did. He scrabbles back up a ways, keeps the pressure. It's not bleeding that much. He doesn't really need an intact earlobe.

There's a wheeze - an awful, quiet little wheeze, and he freezes mid-step, foot half-raised. He hears it again, slightly louder.

It has to be.

If it's not Faye then he has to acknowledge that he might as well truly be off the deepest end in existence. Maybe he already is. He didn't all the way intend to kill her. Sometimes accidents just happen, thoughts lead you to believe you're doing the right thing. And like he said - she couldn't control him. Her hands wouldn't be all over him, controlling his every move.

"Faye," he calls, cautiously, but gets no response save for another awful wheeze. He creeps towards the sound. It's around the side where she fell.

Where he let go.

It must be her, though, because the only other option would be a ghost, and he's not that confused, not yet. He sees her feet, first, tucked away in their dusty little flats, poking out from beyond one of the rocks. Another wheeze. He peeks around the edge.

She's face-up, which doesn't seem fair. There's a lot of blood. Her eyes are cracked open, the tips of two of her left fingers moving, but nothing else save for her lips and the blood slowly dripping from her skull to the rock below.

There's a bone poking out of her leg, too, middle of the shin. Just like Victoire Garcia's was.

Everything comes full circle.

"Faye," he says again, but she remains still. Her fingers twitch again, and one of his little silver hoops comes rolling out of his palm onto the rock below. He lunges for it, for some strange reason, feels her eyes flicker over to him as he moves right up to her side to grab at it. Everything feels better once he has possession of it once again. It's only one, but it's better than nothing.

Faye wheezes again, lips parting. Definitely still alive. Immobile, judging by the bone poking out of her shin. Perhaps there's something else wrong, too. She's not moving anything below the shoulders, limp and awkwardly stuck over the point of a rock. Certainly there's something broken elsewhere, then. A lot of things, if he was a betting man.

He's not.

So he didn't kill her. That's good. He's still not sure if he meant to, or not.

There were a lot of awful cracks on the way down, the main one being her tibia, but he heard other noises too. Not a single scream out of her mouth. Maybe she hadn't had the time, before the point of impact.

He hadn't said a word during the whole exchange either.

Her fingers twitch, and he prepares to inch backwards, away from her hand, like she's going to get him. She can't move, though. It's becoming awkward. He feels increasingly terrible watching her lying here like this, not doing anything while she suffers away. He wonders, absentmindedly, if Victoire screamed when Nikolai dropped her. She probably did.

What is he supposed to do, though? She has no weapon, no way to access him. Should he hold her hand? He's never held anyone's hand before besides his mother's, when he was much younger. He hasn't held it in a while.

He doesn't think Faye would take kindly to him holding her hand, not after... this.

He shoves his earring deep in the pocket of his slacks, and brushes against the compact little metal tool, nestled away at the bottom.

He has no easy answer, except for that.

Is that an easy answer, though? He would have to kill her, in order to end her suffering. He didn't intend to kill her.

Maybe he did. Not like this, though. Doing it this way seems so much more monstrous, so much more awful. Maybe she'll scream this time, too. He has no idea, and isn't sure he wants to. His other option is taking the bike and leaving her here, until the birds come round and begin to peck at her eyes. Maybe something else would get her, first. He isn't sure what other animals are around here.

The metal spike could do the job. It could slit her throat. He'd probably have to poke a hole, drag back the skin and muscle. It wouldn't be as pretty as a knife doing it.

A knife's not pretty, either.

He pulls the tool out. She wheezes again, but this time it breaks in the middle, shoots towards a higher pitch.

Oh, she's scared. He didn't know that was a thing Faye could do.

He presses the tip of the spike against her throat. Her head jerks away, but only an inch or two. It moves with her, and he shifts forward on his knees to keep up after her. If he just thinks of it mechanically, then it's nothing. He's not killing her, really, but putting her out of her misery. That's merciful.

He pushes in. The spike sinks into her throat easier than he expected, like nothing at all, really. Maybe he's just stronger than he thought. That's a good sign; he's on the right track.

He drags right, digging the tip in. It's sharp, but doesn't cut right, not quite like butter, as some people would say. It's jagged at best when it cuts through another inch of her neck. She's still alive, too, eyes still open, though it almost looks as if she's trying to struggle away, now. It's nerve-wracking.

The tool stops, caught up in some tissue or muscle, and he presses a finger against her throat to clear the way, running his nail along the seam of the wound. He gets through another inch, then two.

That should be good, right? It's not her whole throat the entire way round, but he doesn't think he should do that much.

He pulls the tool out and there's an immediate gush of blood down her neck. She chokes up a mouthful of it too. He backs up, getting to his feet. There's already blood soaked into the collar of his shirt from his ear - he doesn't want more of it on him than the bit that's seeped under his nails.

The wheezing has stopped, but now it's just a louder gurgle.

He puts the tool back in his pocket, rolling the earring between two fingers as he feels it, and heads back for the bike. Mechanically.

Mechanically is best. He knows it.

The number is down to eighteen before he even gets back on the bike.

* * *

 **Tarquin Vierra, 16  
Applicant #4**

* * *

The whole world is reduced to a numbing amount of pain.

He thinks numbing because everything he had in his brain at the time just froze over, like an ice age reserved for him and him specifically.

Topher is yelling. He's yelling a whole hell of a lot. Tarquin isn't sure why, exactly, but feels like it has to do with why he's in so much pain.

He's in a lot of pain, honestly. He'd be panicking if his brain wasn't an entire block of ice.

He can hear Noelani, now, and then a very burst of frantic, panicked shouting that sounds a lot like Jay. Well, at least the three of them are here. That has to be a good sign. Probably, anyway. He's not so sure about what's good and what isn't, right now.

"God, what is that?" Jay asks. "Is that like a fucking trap, or something?"

"It looks like a bear trap," Topher says and _oh_ , suddenly this all makes a lot more sense. Someone grabs his face - has to be Noelani, certainly, because it sounds like the other two are flailing around down by his feet.

He doesn't want to, but he opens his eyes. It's not so bright here, where the rock shields some of the sun. This had looked like a promising area, he and Topher had both thought. There were signs of previous human life, some hundreds of years ago, and an entrance into the side of the hill like a mine-shaft, somehow not collapsed. It was hardly visible even from here, tucked away into the rock.

Or maybe that was because he was on the ground, now, and couldn't see much of anything.

"Hey," Noelani says, although her voice is too fast to be considered normal. "Hey, you're fine. It's all fine."

"Is it?" he asks, voice strained. He doesn't dare try to move.

"Yeah, totally. All good."

He nods. He feels stupid nodding.

"How do we get it off?" Noelani asks, looking backwards at the other two. He's just staring right overhead, trying to focus on the sky. That's much better than thinking about how much it hurts.

"Do we want to get it off?" Jay wonders. "Do you know how much that's going to bleed if we do? Wouldn't it be better if we left it on?"

"And do _what_? It's fastened to the rock. So we're just supposed to leave him here?"

He looks at Noelani, then, and she smiles at him. It's sort of grim. "I wasn't serious. We're not leaving you here."

"Oh," he manages. "Okay. Should I look?"

"Do you want to?"

He's honestly not sure, but he nods anyway. Noelani slide an arm under his shoulders to help him up, and he flattens his palms to the ground, slowly inching his way into a sitting position. It's maybe not as terrible as he was expecting. By the reactions he was expecting half his leg to be missing, which would prove to be a problem for the future.

There's a decent amount of blood, though, soaked into the light fabric of his pants all around the ankle. He can barely even see the thing they're calling a bear trap, hidden among the fabric and buried in his skin. There's a chain extending out from it, presumably towards a rock behind him that he doesn't shift to look at.

He wiggles his toes. It hurts, but he can feel them.

"I shouldn't have looked," he decides. "Fuck."

He can't imagine how bad it looks underneath the layer of clothing, how mangled his leg must be. With that amount of blood there's something seriously sharp digging into his leg, something severing parts of it open.

"That— that metal thing you have—"

"It's too wide to fit in there," Noelani answers. "And none of us are strong enough to pry it open."

"Speak for yourself," Jay mutters, poking experimentally at the chain like that's really going to do anything. He might be strong enough to do anything, if he could reach the trap in the first place, but he can't at this angle. And he isn't sure he would want to.

"Jay's right, anyway," she continues. "It would bleed too much. We'd need something to stop the bleeding before we..."

"We don't have anything to stop the bleeding," Topher breaks in. "We just need to get him out of it."

"Well, then I'm saying we need to go look for something. Maybe there's a town nearby, or even a few buildings. Even if we could find a few extra shirts, or some blankets."

They're going to leave him here. They're going to leave him here stuck in this thing, even though Noelani said they wouldn't. His chest sort of hurts at the thought.

"Calm down," Noelani instructs. She's still got a hand on his wrist. The bracelet's still hidden, and so is the line of his pulse, but she certainly must be able to feel it if he can hear it in his own ears. "Someone will stay here with you. Jay, if Topher and I go walk for a few hours, will you stay here with him? Like I said, you're right. We can't do anything until we're prepared to fix it."

How do they fix this? His leg, his ankle, it's all completely mangled and bleeding and _why is this thing even out here in the first place_?

"Why would they set traps for us?" he breathes. "What, their guns aren't good enough on their own?"

He looks up, and Noelani and Jay are sharing a glance, something unspoken passing between their eyes.

"What?" he forces out.

"Nothing," Noelani says, too quick for it to be true. "We need to go. Jay will stay here with you. If we're not back by night..."

"Don't say that," he insists.

"What am I supposed to do if you don't come back by night?" Jay asks. "Like you said, we can't get him out of it."

"Then you'll have to figure something out," Noelani answers. She squeezes his hand until he turns to her. She offers another smile, a poor one. For once it does nothing to make him feel better. If she was staying here with him, maybe, but there's no way she'd split up from Topher right now, and he wouldn't ask her to. He doesn't have any siblings, but even if it was one of his friends from back home he wouldn't leave them either.

"Just take it easy," she says quietly, and lets go of his hand. "Let's go, Toph."

She passes the metal bar off to Jay as the two of them head off, back down the rocky hill. Jay stands there, towering above him for once, fingers flexing against the metal. He watches them for a long while before his gaze focuses elsewhere, seemingly in every direction but the one they just walked off in.

"What are you not saying?" he asks. "What do you and Noelani know that we don't?"

Jay doesn't answer. He avoids looking down at him entirely, it seems.

"Nothing," he says eventually. "At least I really hope it's nothing."

* * *

 **Myra Callaghan-Alistair, 18  
Applicant #5**

* * *

She's never been in the middle of such an awful situation before.

It's quiet, and then it's not. Someone starts freaking out, and then everything falls silent once again.

It's a vicious cycle. But it makes sense.

It was an accident. She maintains that. People fought; that was the natural order of things. Not everyone could get along all of the time - that would just be silly. The world only turned because some people fought and some people loved. It kept on spinning.

But it didn't always have to end the way it did.

And it was her fault.

They couldn't even see where Emmi landed, after she had plunged off the edge of the cliff. But the number on the bracelet had changed, finally, so at least it had been quick. At least she didn't suffer.

That's what Myra's living with, now. The realization that someone died because of her, and she's happy only because it was a quick death.

They may not have gotten along like old friends, but she didn't want to kill her. They were going to fight, get their anger out, and that was supposed to be the end. Throwing a few punches and kicks at each other was supposed to be enough to sort it out. She doesn't know how it happened, doesn't know how they ended up turned around, doesn't know how hard she must have shoved her for the edge of the cliff to give way under her feet...

But it doesn't matter now.

Arwen looks to be in a state of shock. She's sitting in the back of the truck with her arms wrapped around herself, looking very un-Arwen like as she stares at the cliff's edge. Myra was the one that had pulled her back from that same edge, eventually, only for Arwen to rip herself out of Myra's arms, screaming obscenities.

And she deserved them. She didn't yell back.

The truth is that she was allowing her brain to slip away into a sort of soupy-like texture, because everything blended together. There were no harsh edges, no harsh words. Just easy consistency.

Jupiter's been crying. Maybe they've stopped, now, because Myra can no longer hear them. Or maybe Gideon's just muffling it.

"Myra?"

She doesn't move, unsurprised when Jahaira finally sits down next to her in the dirt. Her eyes look just as blank as Myra feels.

This whole thing is just awful. She can feel the air around them, like she could cut it with a knife, if she had one. Everyone's flickering eyes watching each other like they're afraid they'll be the next ones over the edge.

"Did you mean it?" Jahaira whispers. "Did you mean to—"

"Of course not," she snaps. Gideon's eyes snap to hers, already narrowed. "I didn't mean for her to fall off the edge, I didn't realize how close we were..."

"But Jupiter tried to warn you," Arwen says flatly. "Don't pretend you didn't hear them. You heard. You just didn't care."

"Because you're the pinnacle for caring, right, Arwen?" she asks, clambering to her feet. Jahaira looks up at her in alarm, eyes already saying _not again, not again._

Maybe, again. She's not writing the possibility of it out just yet.

Arwen stays seated in her hunched over position, arms drawn around herself. Even in this state she almost looks like royalty, and Myra would believe it if not for the sheen to her eyes, the worried clench of her fingers around her own arms.

"At least I cared enough to not push someone off a damn cliff."

"I didn't push her!" she bursts out. "It— it was an accident, she slipped. Do you hear me? It was an accident."

"Nothing like that is an accident."

"She threw the first punch."

"So your first response is to fucking kill her?" Arwen snaps. Now she gets to her feet, finally, slipping from the back of the truck. Suddenly the royalty makes all the more sense, even though her purple hair now is dull in comparison to what it looked like a few days ago, softened by dirt and sand.

"I just told you it was an accident."

"And I told you - nothing you do is accidental. Maybe even you didn't know it, but you were thinking it somewhere in the back of the mind. That it would be easier if she was gone."

"And maybe I'm thinking that about you," she replies. "But I'm not doing anything about that, am I?"

"Not yet," Arwen scoffs. "God, not yet. This is what we're reduced to. Just get it over with and kill me, then, or give it your best shot."

"Don't," Jahaira says. "Please don't fight. You guys don't need to fight."

They don't, but they might. As terrible as it sounds, fighting with Emmi seemed easier. Maybe because of the missing arm, or something else she wasn't quite sure about. Arwen is more intimidating, an opponent that looks as if they'll bite back with all the force in the world. And she just killed, indirectly, the person Arwen was closest with by a very long mile.

She wonders who would win this fight, and can't say confidently that it would be her.

She doesn't know which outcome she would hate worse, either.

"I changed my mind," she says instead. "We should go. Or I'll just go, if that makes it easier."

"So now you want to go," Arwen mutters. "All of this and now you're agreeing to go. Was it worth it, then?"

It wasn't. None of this was. She wants to go back home so desperately, she wants to be back in a tattoo parlor, she wants to rewind time even just an hour, to before all of this. She wants Emmi to still be here.

Fights happen. They don't have to end the way this one did. She would pull them both back from the edge, let them get their anger out at a safe distance.

No one would have to die.

"I think it would be easier if you went, actually," Arwen says. She leans back against the edge of the truck but now her arms are folded across her chest, held more taut. Myra can see where her nails are digging into her own skin, the golden polish chipped away at the edges to reveal the brittleness underneath. No longer perfect. Far from it, in fact.

Nothing about any of them is perfect anymore.

"That's it, then?" she asks. "You want me to go?"

Arwen swallows, working away for a few seconds. Myra can sense all of the things she wants to say just out of reach, held carefully on her tongue. When she looks up there's something different about her eyes. The sheen is gone to them.

The sadness erased. Like the flip of a switch, a quick shift of emotions.

"Yeah," Arwen answers. "Yeah, I do."

Something shifts behind her. Gideon, maybe, or Jupiter. She forgot they were even there.

Jahaira turns, too, just a fraction of an inch. Her mouth falls open.

"Fuck," she says. "Jesus, don't—"

Something cracks into the back of Myra's head.

There's no more shifting, after that.

* * *

 **Jahaira Aurelion, 16  
Applicant #23**

* * *

She flings herself away, far away from the madness, and closes her eyes.

She goes somewhere else. Into one of the pictures she took of the early morning light rising over the mountains, golden and pink and purple light spilling over the desert. She pretends she's far away, just a girl in a peaceful desert town, a place where her and her sister could dance in the rainstorms that only pass through a few times a year.

She opens her eyes, miraculously, and she is not dead.

But Myra is.

That's what the thunderstorm was the entire time. The crack of the thunder the sound of her skull, underneath the impact of the bat. The sound of their shoes sinking into the soft mud more like the fluid that must be leaking out of her brain, into the dirt. It sounds just like it, the soft, wet sounds of the impact over and over again. So much so that she's not sure if she can take it anymore.

There's a sound that's ruining it all, too, the louder sounds of someone retching. Arwen is still standing at the back of the truck watching Gideon do... just what he's doing, so it must be Jupiter.

Of course it's Jupiter.

"Stop," she pleads, finally. "Stop, please, just stop—"

She flattens her hands over her ears, so she's not sure if anything else comes out of her mouth, or if the sound really stops. Why would Gideon listen to her, after all, or Arwen? After what they just did?

It was Gideon's action, but Arwen saw it all coming. She didn't see it until the last second, until it was too late to stop it. That means even Jupiter saw it coming, then, and didn't pull him away, take the bat from his hands. They let him do it all the same.

This is just a nightmare, someone's awful creation, another simulation. It certainly can't be happening, because what then?

She opens her eyes, unaware of when she had closed them again. Arwen's gone - she hears the noise of the truck's door slamming as if underwater, somewhere very far away. Gideon is still standing over the body. Myra, not the body. It's still Myra.

She's just not really here anymore.

"What did you do?" she asks weakly. "Why— what, what did you do?"

He considers that. "Conflict resolution."

"She's _dead_."

"That she is."

She nearly collapses into the dirt, her knees are shaking so bad. Is that what Arwen felt, in the moment that they realized Emmi had gone off the cliff? Did she feel the same way Jahaira feels now? Myra's here but she's gone, and the back of her skull is a caved-in, bloody mess, nothing more than a hole where so much had been before, face down in the dirt.

The sick thing is, she's glad she can't see her face. She doesn't want to.

Something in her moves. She's not sure what part of her. It requires her navigating around the body, around Myra, to get to Gideon. Once there she reaches her hands out and shoves him, only once, hard in the chest. He only stumbles back a pace. It still satisfies something in her.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" she hisses. "Are you insane? Why— why would you just do that, why—"

"It's done now," he interrupts. "You can do whatever you want. See you."

 _See you_ , like they're ending a school day. Gideon readjusts the bat in his hands, handle still clean, and starts walking away. Dimly, to her left, the car starts. Jupiter and her stare at each other. She imagines they look much the same - horrified, confused, shocked.

But Jupiter let it happen, she reminds herself. Jupiter's not a good person the way she thought.

They glance around a few times, at Jahaira and the rumbling car, to Gideon's retreating form. The breath they take makes their entire body quiver.

"Mal!" they call, voice just as shaky. "Wait up!"

They turn around to give chase. It's an awkward, hobbling sort of run. Jahaira no longer has the capacity to feel bad about it.

There's blood almost an inch from her shoes, and she shuffles away from it. She gets the feeling that the two of them are never coming back.

Which leaves her standing there, like she was the murderer, and Arwen in the car. She is not Myra's killer, neither of them. One more so than the other, perhaps, but at neither of their hands. Or maybe at the heart of it they were all at fault.

It feels like they were all at fault. How the Sentinels must be laughing at them now.

Her walk to the passenger side of the truck is like that of a robot; she'd be laughing at someone walking this way, back home, but can only imagine that it's appropriate now. She reaches for the door handle without looking up, to where Arwen must be watching. She remains unsurprised when the door doesn't pull open like it would normally, locked tight.

"Please," she says, hoping her voice is loud enough. She feels weak. She hates feeling that way.

She doesn't hear the lock click open, but Arwen reaches over and opens the door.

"It wasn't locked," she says flatly. "It gets stuck. You didn't pull hard enough."

There isn't even any room in her for mortification anymore. She just nods, dimly, and climbs into the passenger seat. It would be too easy to curl up and let the worn leather swallow her whole - that's what she wants to do.

"Don't want to take a picture now?" Arwen asks. There's not as much maliciousness in it as Jahaira would expect, but it's still a dig. She palms the camera, tucked into the pocket of her shorts. It's still there, but it's of no use now. Some things can't be captured with just a photograph. It wouldn't be able to express how she feels now, what the sheen of blood looks like in the afternoon desert sun when it's coming out of one of your friends.

It would be fake, like everything else feels.

She shakes her head, staring ahead. Arwen is staring at the side of her face, she can feel it, but she gazes resolutely ahead, lets her hand fall away from the camera.

Like she said, no use now. No use ever again, maybe.

It's that thought, of them all, that makes her feel the most desolate.

* * *

 **Damas Mancer, 13  
Applicant #12**

* * *

"Do you think she found something?" he asks.

Percy shrugs. He feels it where his arms are draped over his shoulders. "Hopefully. It's that or she's getting attacked by something, and I'm not sure if I'm in the correct mindset to deal with that."

He nods in agreement, settling his chin back over his arm. Verity's up ahead and over a hill, yelling and creating the greatest racket he's heard in the past three days, or possibly a lot longer. He can't remember ever making that much noise in his entire life. It's a testament to just how different certain people are, he guesses. And it's a nice change from the drag of the normal days.

This is their normal days, now.

"Guys!" Verity is shouting, over and over again. It's getting louder as Percy makes his way further up the hill, still with Damas perched on his back.

"Are you going to drop dead soon?" he asks, focusing on each uncertain step underneath them both.

"Probably," Percy huffs. "Sorry if I do."

He nods again, sagely. At this point he's trying to make himself as easy to carry as possible, let Percy manhandle him as he pleases. He's given up his little hat, too, even though it doesn't quite fit Percy's head. He's resorted to holding it over top of him. It's not very much shade for the person doing all the work, but it's something.

The space between them is slick with sweat. He's not exactly enjoying it either.

"Guys!" Verity yells again, just as they crest the top of the little hill.

Percy nearly collapses, he suspects, but not from exhaustion.

"Oh, that's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he breathes, and Damas nods. Again. He feels stupid for nodding so much.

It's not the vast, flowing stream that seems to haunt both his nightmares and dreams, but it's water. It's a wide swath cut through the rocky desert. There's even grass and flowers, large boulders. The river isn't flowing at all force - in fact, it's not even ankle deep, as Verity is proving as she wades through it. But it's lapping over her shoes and still running, even though the basin is half-dried out. There's even a little boardwalk built out over some parts of it, broken pieces of dilapidated wood hanging off into the water and grass below.

He can imagine it in cooler times, when the water is running properly, swollen after the rain.

Verity lays down at the edge of it and promptly sticks the entire bottom half of her face into the stream.

"I don't even care if that's safe to drink," Percy announces. "I'll die from bad water, I don't care."

He huffs out a little agreeable laugh - somehow that sounds better than dying from heatstroke. Not so hot, in the very least. Hot like he is, he's certain, from fever. It's not just the climate that's doing it to him.

He doesn't know anything about the types of infections that could be lingering in the wound on his side, mostly taped over. Even the tape is starting to lose its grip, between the sweat and the movement. He isn't sure how long it will last.

Percy deposits him at the edge of the stream and then wades into it himself, sitting down in the deepest part of it with a splash and a thud. It still doesn't even flow over his knees, but Verity lifts her head up from the water and laughs, full of glee.

It feels a lot better than it used to.

He pulls himself to the water's edge and dips his hands in. It's not even cool, lukewarm at best, and it tastes slightly muddy when he lifts it to his lips and drinks, but it may just be the best thing he's ever tasted. He takes another handful, slowly. They're so hungry and dehydrated that too much water probably won't do them any good.

He takes a few more handfuls and then shifts forward again, draping his arms into the water. Even the lukewarm temperature of it feels so much better than the sun. Verity has rolled over and is just about laying in it, staring up at the sun and looking deliriously happy about it, if she can see anything at all.

Something twinges in his side once he lays down and he nearly cries out in pain, a pulsing agony rippling through his side, all the way into his stomach.

"If there's water, there's probably an old town or something around here, right?" Verity asks, while he's biting the inside of his cheek.

"Probably," Percy answers. He turns over onto his hands and knees, looking around. "Maybe towards that bend?"

He looks up, even though his eyes are blurry with pain-induced tears. There's some rock maybe a mile or two away, the child of a mountain. Something could be hiding behind it.

"Well we should go look, then. We could find somewhere to stay and we'd have water close by!"

Verity sounds she's picking a very delusional vacation spot, but he's in too much pain to protest or even tell her as much. He twitches again, trying to alleviate it, and swears something tears back open. He presses a hand against it and feels just a little more warmth seep through his already crusted-over shirt.

More blood. More risk of infection.

How bad could the risk be, if he already has one?

At this point he's just delaying the inevitable, unsure of why. He rubs at the wound through the shirt, feeling some of the tape edges peel free. It's already starting to come apart, anyway. Him unraveling it faster is only ensuring that he goes quicker.

But he's fine with that, really. Like he said, it's the inevitable. He doesn't want to burden these two with his life forever, not when they look so happy now. They have no right to look so happy, but it's beautiful, and he hopes to see it again, before he goes.

"This is nice," Verity decides. She looks at Percy, and then at him.

He smiles. Nods.

It is nice. And it will be nice too, after he's gone.

He's sure of it.

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17**  
 **Applicant #13**

* * *

People always talk about the different types of pain.

There's the emotional pain, the mental pain. The kind that sticks with you even when nothing on the outside hurts. She can feel that type, vaguely, tucked away into some back corner of her brain from the trauma of it all. The shock.

But there's the more pressing, alarming matter of the physical pain.

She moves - tries to, really. She can feel all of her fingers and toes; that's a good thing, certainly. There's something sticky and wet over her closed eyelids. Blood, presumably. She cracks them open and it's all she can see, the sky and the rock above her tinged red. She closes them again. It's easier that way, and not as complicated to focus.

The whole side of her face burns, like she's rubbed it raw. She twists her neck - it's sore, but she can still move it. Her head is throbbing, and she can feel where her hair is plastered to the ground because of all the blood. There's a deep, stabbing pain in her shoulder, and she's not sure what to call that. Dislocated? Broken? Just generally destroyed from the fall?

Her arm, though, the whole one, can move with only minimal pain. It hurts, no doubt scraped open and torn like her face is, but she gently rubs at some of the blood that's certainly in her eyes, clearing it away. When she opens them next everything is still faintly pink, blurry at the edges, but at least she can properly see.

The top edge of the cliff where she plunged off is no longer in sight. She can see it when she turns her head to the right, maybe ten or fifteen feet over. She must have hit more rock and rolled this way. Now she's tucked under the rocky overhang dug into the side of the cliff, laying on more rock and dirt. She doesn't dare move. She tongues at the split in her lip, feels her way up her jaw. It feels okay. The entire left side of her face is scraped to hell, as she predicted, and most of her ear. Her nose is sore when she prods at it but not too painful. There's another deeper gouge on her temple extending all the way into her hairline, god only knows how long and deep.

But she's alive, somehow. She can feel all her fingers and her toes.

She's alive, after falling off a cliff.

She takes deep breath after deep breath, focusing on nothing but her breathing. As long as she keeps it even and steady everything will be fine.

Or at least that's what she's trying to convince herself of, anyway.

If something is seriously wrong with her shoulder, she'll have to find a way to bandage it. A bandage, or an extra shirt, neither of which she actually has. She'll need more to cover some of her wounds.

And then what, if she can even walk? She has no water, no food, no others.

She can't hear them on the cliff above, either.

She doesn't get the feeling they're down here looking, either.

Okay, so she needs to try and stand. She has a map, which will help, and a box of matches. It's better than having nothing. She braces her elbow against the ground and pushes up, slowly. Her whole body throbs, her stomach and right side worst of all. Inch by inch she raises herself into a sitting position, until she can brace her back against the wide rock behind her.

It's worse than she thought, upon inspection.

There's a lot of blood, but she expected that. She was expecting the pain and the blood, the broken rock underneath her. What she wasn't expecting was the jagged tree branch sticking out of her abdomen.

She's an odd one, sometimes, and she knows it best of all, but something in her brain flees the premises. The panic, maybe. It packs up and leaves. She tries for a scream, tries for a faint whimper, even, and nothing will come out.

There's a fucking tree branch through her abdomen.

It's through her stomach and angled out towards the right, where the tip has burst through from her side, around her ribs. It's a foot long, at least, and as big around as her forearm.

And she's still not dead, miraculously.

That doesn't make any sense.

Maybe she's in shock. It certainly feels like she is.

There's a scraggly little tree clinging to the rock. One of the branches is snapped off, the one that must be in her now. She only knows it because she can see the bloody, broken end still clinging on. It must have stopped some of her momentum - that has to be the reason why she wasn't shattered into a hundred pieces upon hitting the ground.

The tree branch currently in her abdomen stopped her from splattering all over the ground.

Suddenly, this all seems to be a much bigger problem.

She takes another deep breath. It hurts worse than before. No shit, Emmi, her brain says back. You've got a branch in you, and approximately fuck-all else.

But that means nothing. She lays here and dies, or she gets moving. She figures something out.

She doesn't quite know how to lay down and die.

It seems like she has some work to do, then.

* * *

Happy 100k everyone. Not exactly the happiest way to ring it in, but alas.

Until next time.


	24. Pavlovian

XXI: Day Three, Night.

* * *

 **Jupiter Valentine, 18  
Applicant #9**

* * *

Mal's walking faster than he normally would.

They're used to people accommodating to their speed, slowing down their own pace so that they don't have to strain their muscles in order to keep up. Mal didn't really do that, per say, but he also never went running on ahead of them like it was on purpose.

Like he's doing right now.

"Would you slow down?" they ask, slightly breathless. "Trying to keep up with you is exhausting."

"You should've went with the girls."

"Who says, besides you?" they ask. "And why?"

"Because you're complaining about walking, and you wouldn't be if you were with them."

Something in him slows, almost unconsciously. He peers at them over his shoulder. "Sorry. I didn't—"

"I know," they answer. "It's fine."

"None of this is fine," Mal mutters, rubbing a hand over his forehead. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

He doesn't answer. They didn't really expect him to. There seems to be a war going on in his head, a whole lot of emotions that they can imagine Mal doesn't go through very often. He's still clutching onto the bat like it's a lifeline - it probably is. They're doing their best to ignore all of the gore towards the end of it, the blood and bits of bone that have since stuck to it.

There's a part of them that almost _wants_ to be scared of Mal, of the anger and what he did to Myra without a moment's hesitation. He had been blank-faced, utterly committed to the deed of murder until they were all certain she was dead. It was hard to be alive with the back of your head caved in.

They were the one Mal grabbed when the girls were fighting at the cliff's edge in the first place, though. He dragged them away, made sure they weren't involved. He protected them, and they don't feel as if most people get the privilege of Gideon Mallory's protection.

And truthfully, the others scared her more than Mal does. Emmi went off a cliff because of them - Emmi is _dead_ because of them. If they hadn't fought in the first place, they wouldn't be walking away on their own now. Mal wouldn't have killed Myra in retaliation, if it was even that in the first place. Maybe it was just one of Arwen's wishes, Mal doing the bidding.

They're really not scared of him the way they think they should be. If anything, this whole thing makes them even more convinced that if it really came down to life and death that Mal would protect them until the end.

It's a relief to know that. Not terrifying.

Maybe they're just crazy. It would be an easier explanation than anything else, if they're being honest.

"If I'm walking too fast, you just tell me," he says quietly. "I'll slow down."

"You're fine. You don't have to slow down on my account."

He shrugs. "Used to it. It's fine."

"What do you mean?"

He swings the bat a little, back and forth a few times. It looks like such an innocent gesture.

"My friend Connie... my best friend, really. She's in a wheelchair. Sometimes I just get too ahead of myself and she has to chase after me. Not easy considered Seven has a paved road about once every ten miles."

They smile. It's easy to picture, if they're being honest. Mal can seem so obtrusive at times, to the wrong people.

"Do I remind you of her?"

"Sometimes." He shrugs again. "Not really. I guess the physical stuff, yeah, but not much else. She's a lot mouthier than you are. When I get too far ahead of her she shouts loud enough for half the damn District to hear. I miss getting shouted at, not going to lie."

"I could shout at you, if you want."

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I reckon you will. Have you ever yelled in your life?"

They jab him in the side and he laughs, a little, under his breath. It's better than nothing, better than the look on his face earlier today. Here they are, walking alongside a murderer, but they're no better, really. Arwen wanted him to do it, but they stood there and let it happen. Not once did they step forward and try to intervene, try to pull him away from the situation like he did when the girls were all fighting.

They're as much responsible for this as anyone else.

And they could have gone with Arwen and Jahaira. That would have been the easier option. Beside the bat they've got all the supplies, the water, the car. They have virtually nothing, except each other. They know deep down that that's not good enough, but it feels like it is. They're just glad to have someone because they don't think they could do this alone.

"Hey, Mal," they say quietly. "Stop for a second."

He does so, almost instantly, and they take the opportunity when it presents itself to step forward and wrap their arms around him, a crushingly tight hug. He goes stiff in their embrace, arms flattened to his sides where they've pushed them. They could let go, but they're not sure Mal would hug them back anyway.

"I don't want you to be sad."

"I'm not sad," he huffs. "Just... I don't know yet."

"Let me know when you figure it out."

He nods, and pulls an arm free, just the one, and wraps it back around their shoulders in turn, holding them there for another few seconds.

"You know, you're really not like Connie at all," he says. "She'd have hit me and told me to stop moping, not hugged me."

They step back with a smile on their face, and for a second the horrors of the day are gone. Something as simple as a hug has the ability to erase it all, for a few seconds, at the relief that floods back into Mal's eyes. It's not a permanent solution, that they know, but it's a brief respite, and they needed it.

"Let's go, then," they offer, and this time it's them that takes the lead, waiting for Mal to catch up. "We've got water to look for."

* * *

 **Topher Westmoreland, 12  
Applicant #24**

* * *

They should have gone back by now.

It seemed almost hypocritical to tell Jay that he would need to figure something out if they didn't come back by nightfall, now. They definitely weren't going to make it back by then. The sun was setting, the sky steadily growing darker.

They'd been walking all day. They'd be lucky to make it back before dawn, at this rate.

He couldn't help but wonder what Jay would be doing, right about now. Would he try to get Tarquin out on his own? Would he risk coming after that without knowing exactly which path they took?

"Lani, we should go back."

"We can't go back without _anything_ ," she says in frustration, waving her hands about. He understands where his sister is coming from, but it's hard to not focus on the exhaustion, the pointless path they're both walking along right now.

"We're not doing them any good being out here," he offers, as a way to make her feel better. He hopes, anyway. "They're both probably freaking out that we're still gone."

"What if he's dead?" she asks, voice rising an octave. "What if he died while we were gone?"

"Why would he have _died_? It was his leg, not his heart. Jay can handle it for like, twelve hours. They'll both be fine."

He was patient, at first, but now he's getting angry. What are they even doing out here anymore? They really aren't doing any good, that's for sure, and it's not doing Tarquin any good either, no doubt. He'd never say it aloud to Noelani, but he doesn't exactly trusts Jay's protective and caring instincts.

He reaches forward and grabs her around the arm. "Let's go."

"Calm down."

"I'm very calm," he insists, although his rising voice says otherwise. "We need to go back. _Now."_

"Keep your voice down!"

"Why?" he asks, yelling just for the sake of it. "The Sentinels already know where we are! Maybe if someone else finds us they'll have some supplies to help us, or even some moral support—"

"I don't think we're alone out here, Toph."

"No, really?" he questions, rolling his eyes. "What makes you think that?"

"I'm serious!" she insists. "Besides the Sentinels and the other applicants, I think, and— oh my God."

"What?" he asks. She tugs her arm out of his grip and wraps her arms around him, bustling him behind a large rock. She basically sits on him to get him to fall to the ground, forcing him to stay still.

"What are you doing?"

"Shut up!" she whispers. "Shut up, I think I saw someone."

"Okay?" he wonders. "So let's go see who it is. We need help!"

"No, no," she says. "Stay still for just a second."

He doesn't really have a choice - like he said, she's basically seated on top of him in order to keep him pinned to the ground, craning her neck. It's not doing any good that he can tell; she's not nearly tall enough to see over the top of the rock, not without standing up.

"Promise me you'll stay still."

"I can't promise that."

 _"Topher."_

"Okay, mother," he mumbles, muffled into the dirt. Noelani lifts some of her weight up, slowly using the rock for purchase as she rises to her feet. All subtlety is thrown out the window the second she pokes her head over top of the rock - her hair kind of does that. He's not sure why she's even attempting to be subtle in the first place.

He sits up, leaning against the rock, but stays put. He can at least try to listen.

"Do you see anyone?"

"Yeah, one person. They're up on top of the rocks over there."

"Over where?"

"Over there! East maybe? That could be west."

He sighs and slowly begins to push himself up next to her; she doesn't shove him back down, so he takes that as permission and continues. His head barely crests the top of the rock, but he follows Noelani's gaze to the rocky structure maybe a hundred feet away. He too can see a dark silhouette perched on a flat edge of it.

"Do they have a weapon?" he asks. "Where did they get a weapon?"

"I'm telling you, it could be someone else! Someone we don't know."

If he's being honest, he had already forgotten about that bit. Again, he doesn't want to say it aloud, but his sister may just be a little crazy. He can't judge her for that - this place could do that to anyone.

He sinks back down to the ground. "Stop staring at them, then. We'll wait until they go away."

Noelani hits the ground beside him with a very spectacular thud.

Or at least he would think it was spectacular, if not for the arrow in her throat.

He didn't even hear the flight of the arrow as it whizzed all the way towards them; no, all he hears now is the awful choking, the bubbling of the blood out of her mouth and all over chin. She lands on her back, stretched out before him, all her limbs jerking out in panic.

"Noelani," he chokes. "No, no, no, it's okay, you're okay."

He flings himself over, grabs a hold of her arms. She grabs him back in a similar way. Another arrow goes flying overhead, nearly skimming the rock they had just been peeking over, and he ducks over her, as close as he can get. Some of the blood and spittle flies up, hitting him in the cheek, and he flinches.

"It's okay," he repeats, the threat of a sob blocking his throat. "It's okay, everything's okay."

Her hands are still curled around his forearms. He expects her to pull him closer. Another arrow comes shooting overhead - this time it collides with the rocks and shatters, bits of wood and the fletching scattering over his back.

Her hands, instead of holding on, push him away.

It's a feeble motion, and Topher hardly goes anywhere at all. She tries again. It's harder, this time. Still not enough to force him away properly, but he sees her mouth moving amidst all the blood, trying to force a word out that she can't form.

Another arrow zooms in. This one is lower, and he feels the breeze nearly catch the top of his head.

She wants him to go.

If he goes, she dies.

There's so much blood, so much worse than Tarquin. He doesn't know the statistics, but he can't imagine she's going to survive with an arrow through the front of her neck, crushed beneath the back of her throat. He has no chance of getting her back to the others; she won't last that long.

She shoves at him again and it's slow, weak. Already there's so much less force behind it than before.

He looks up. The person is still there, hugging the rock. Ready to shoot again.

No one, he knows, would have the aim this person did. None of them were that good. If they shoot again, and he's looking like this, they'll hit him, no doubt about it.

They release another arrow. He lets go of Noelani's arms with a very ugly sob and dives out of the way.

There's rocks everywhere, boulders scattered through the dirt like a mountain collapsed directly overhead. He scrabbles away on his hands and knees, over and over again, feeling the sharp edges of the stone underneath tear at his palms and knees. It doesn't matter how much he bleeds.

There are tears streaming down his cheeks, hotter than anything now that the sun's gone down.

It was bad enough when the bracelet went down to seventeen, when he knew they were really and properly doing this without a choice to go back. They had been walking at the time, chatting, when Noelani had noticed it.

It's even worse when it ticks down to sixteen, because that one belongs to his sister.

Seventeen. A number. A placement.

He doesn't want to be sixteen.

* * *

 **Jupiter Valens, 14**  
 **Applicant #16**

* * *

"Jay?"

"I thought I told you to go to sleep."

"Kinda hard," Tarquin mumbles. "They're still not back yet?"

He shakes his head, even though Tarquin hasn't opened his eyes. He probably gets the message loud and clear regardless.

He watches the sun disappear below the horizon with a yawning, black pit in the bottom of his stomach, a pit as big as the darkening sky above them. It feels like it's going to eat away at him until something comes spilling out. Maybe it would feel better than he feels right now. A sort of release.

Probably not.

"When do you think they're going to come back?"

He shakes his head again. He almost doesn't want to know. He just wants to hear the duo's approaching footsteps as they struggle their way back up in the rock in the dark, unable to see if where they're stepping is solid or some chasm ready to drag them in.

There's only so much he can do. Tarquin's comfortable, relatively speaking - as comfortable as he'll be able to get him. He tried to stay under shade most of the day, and inched Tarquin as close as he could in turn. He spent some time pacing once the sun started setting, back and forth. He poked his head into the black mine-shaft in the mountainside that Tarquin pointed out, but didn't dare venture inside. Not without a light that he does not have.

There could be something in there, maybe, but his life isn't worth the risk. He's not sure it's worth any of this.

At least he doesn't feel quite so sick now, if you ignore the pit in his stomach.

"I'm sorry," Tarquin says.

"For what?"

"I know you didn't want to stay here."

"Well, you heard what Noelani said."

"I know, but... you wanted to be the one to go. You didn't want to sit here with me. If Topher and her weren't siblings, he probably would have stayed and you would have gone. That would have been your ideal choice."

"You have an awful lot of energy to talk for someone stuck in a bear trap."

"Can't move." He shrugs and seems to regret it instantly, wincing in the trap's grip. "Gotta use the energy for something. And you didn't deny it, you know."

He gnaws at the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood, biting down hard to keep himself from saying something to make the situation worse. So what - Tarquin's right. A lot of people have been right about him before. It makes no difference.

"Let's just agree that neither of us are in the situation we wanna be in right now," he mutters, and Tarquin sighs. He's still lying flat on his back, staring up at the stars.

Jay has no idea what he's thinking, and doesn't want to imagine.

The two of them sit in silence for a long while until Jay can't bear to any longer. He gets to his feet, swinging the metal bar back and forth. It's still hot but not unbearably so with the sun gone down - it's as good of a time for another pace as any. It's not like he can go that far anyway, unless he climbs down. He has the best vantage point from up here; no matter what way he looks, though, there's no sign of Noelani or Topher.

He should have never agreed to this in the first place.

The mine-shaft is somehow even more imposing in the dark, an inkier black than the rest of their surroundings. He can hear dripping water from somewhere, and it's almost enough to tempt him.

Almost.

Most of the supports have crumbled down to the ground below, but behind the first ten or so feet the pathway looks clear; it wouldn't take all that much to clamber aside and explore a little bit. The only issue is he can't see anything beyond those ten feet. For all he knows it drops off into nothing, the way some of the rock does here. He could stumble off into nothing.

Besides, the noises are keeping him from taking the plunge. The sound of dripping water, the creaking, the occasional pitter-patter of a falling rock rolling to a stop, and... voices?

Are those voices?

He presses himself up against the first fallen support and it nearly gives way. A cloud of dust erupts from the ceiling and the whole tunnel seems to shake for a moment before it comes still.

The noises, the voices, those stop as well, until everything falls still again. Then they resume, quieter this time, but he can still hear them. It's more than one - that much he can tell.

He takes a few experimental steps back away from the mine's entrance and the voices fall, until he's straining to hear them.

"There are people in there," he says, to no one in particular. It makes him feel better to say it aloud, less crazy.

People... applicants, Sentinels, or something else?

Someone else.

Probably someone else.

"Tarquin," he hisses under his breath, picking his way back to their resting spot. "Tarquin, hey."

He doesn't move upon Jay's initial approach, breathing even and deep. Jay's not sure how he can do that with his leg caught in a bear trap. He's out cold, though. And what is he going to do? If there's people in the mines and they're coming up, he can't stay here. He can't get Tarquin out, either, not this quickly and not without making a hell of a lot of noise.

He angrily kicks at some of the rocks, internally kicking _himself_ for the noise it makes. Tarquin's asleep. He can't stay here.

Which means he's going to go.

And leave him here?

"Yep," he decides. "Yep, alright, let's go."

He's talking to himself because Tarquin's out, because there's no one else around except for the people who may come up here and kill him. Maybe not, but he's not feeling so optimistic.

And like he already said, his life isn't worth the risk.

He looks down at Tarquin again. He should wake him up, or at least try to get him out. Smash the chain tethering him to the rock to pieces, peel the trap away from his leg - something other than abandon him.

But Noelani and Topher are gone. They told him to figure something out. They never said what exactly that entailed, and he's certainly not about to kill Tarquin to spare him.

That leaves him one option.

He hardens his resolve, tightens his grip on the bar, and starts climbing down.

Tarquin's out of view quickly, still sound asleep, but the pit in his stomach only opens up wider

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17  
Applicant #10**

* * *

Maybe it's because of all the heat-induced sleeping he did earlier, but he sure as shit can't sleep now.

Or maybe, just maybe, it's because he's cramped up in the passenger seat still. It was different when he was exhausted, disoriented. Now he's just slightly annoyed.

Okay, beyond slightly annoyed.

He glances into the backseat at Soran, who appears to be enjoying his sleep quite thoroughly. Maybe that's because of how much room he has for his legs and just about everything else - Icarus wishes he had that much privilege. He's not used to being the one without that option.

He's tempted to throw something at him, but he's got one of the water bottles or one of the weapons.

Both seem kind of harsh.

Fuck it, though, because this guy shoved him out of a car two days ago and could have very well killed him.

He picks up one of the water bottles and lobs it into the back-seat. It hits him nearly square between the shoulders and he smiles as Soran shoots nearly perfectly upright, eyes wide.

"Hand slipped," he claims, and reaches into the footwell to grab it back. Soran gets there before him, wrestling his hand away to get it first, and then he throws it back. It bounces off the center of his chest and over his feet, into his own footwell.

" _Hey_."

"You threw it at me first."

"I said my hand slipped!"

"Yeah, backwards and directly into me. Likely story."

He nods in agreement, reaching down to scoop the bottle back up.

"Is something wrong?" Soran asks. "Or were you just feeling particularly petulant?"

"That's a big word for you."

"Particularly is longer than that, jackass. Any reason you woke me up, or can I go back to sleep? I know you're almost exclusively relying on me to protect you - again, likely story, but—"

"I do not need you to protect me," he exclaims. "I'm uncomfortable."

Soran looks at him. "Okay?"

"Give me the backseat."

"Why are you so demanding?" Soran asks. "Give me the keys, give me the backseat, give me this, give me that. Does it ever end?"

"Well, you've been back there for a few hours, and I think we should switch."

"You had _all day to sleep back here_ ," Soran points out, which is fair, but Icarus isn't about to admit that. "I'm the one stuck driving from dawn 'till dusk because someone is too afraid to do it himself."

"I'm not _afraid_."

Soran barks out a laugh and lays down again, stretching all the way out. Again, he's not going to say it, but he's envious as hell. He kicks his legs out all the way to the opposite door, folds his hands behind his head. He looks miles more comfortable than Icarus is. He tries to do the same, but his knees bump up against the dash even at the best of times, and the seat won't go back anymore because the lever is stuck in place.

"Go for a walk if you feel so cramped."

"Maybe I will," he snaps, but doesn't reach for the door, nor does he make any effort to move. He tries to make himself comfortable, settles more firmly into the seat-back, but it hardly does anything at all. He crosses and uncrosses his arms a few times, wiggling around.

"God," Soran grumbles. "Please let me sleep. It's like the bunks all over again."

He wiggles a bit more and falls still, listening to Soran sigh in the backseat as silence comes back over them once again.

"Do you think there's enough room for both of us back there?" he asks, nearly five minutes later.

"Don't you dare."

He clambers over the seats and into the back, sitting first on Soran's legs and then the actual seat once he shoves them out of the way. Soran's shoes hit the mats with a thud, and he stares blankly at the ceiling.

"God help me."

"You could sleep in the trunk, if you like," he offers.

"You're gonna end up in the trunk if you don't shut up."

"Don't kill me in my sleep, please," he begs, trying to settle down. Soran's inched over - not much, but it's a bit of a start. Soran's feet are also nearly in his face once he lifts them up and back on the seat, but he feels like mentioning that will get him stabbed.

"No promises."

"You wouldn't."

"I'm still considering it."

"No, you're not," he says, mostly for his own benefit. If he can convince himself that Soran won't murder him the second he closes his eyes it will make rest come easier, he's sure. And it sounds like half the truth now, anyway. If Soran wanted to he'd have done it by now. There's a reason he shoved him out of the car instead of murdering him outright - Icarus isn't sure what that reason is, per say, but he'll take whatever it happens to be.

He's not quite laying down; neither of them are, now, but there's just enough room for the both of them to stretch out. One of his legs is hanging off the seats and hitting the ground, but he knows when to choose his battles.

Most of the time, anyway.

"I'm surprised they didn't teach you to be an insomniac at the Academy," he says quietly, and Soran mumbles something into the fold of his arms.

"You're teaching me how to be one right now," he mumbles, just loud enough for Icarus to hear him say it. It's satisfying, but also slightly... disheartening? He should probably let him sleep.

Is he going soft? God forbid, especially not for Soran.

"Really, though, what did they teach you? I know you were only there for a year and a half."

"They go easy on you when you're that age."

"Well, I'd certainly fucking hope so," he quips. "So what, just the basics?"

He hums in agreement. "Basic weapons - most of the smaller ones. Knives, short-swords, things like that. A lot of mental conditioning, really. The younger they could get you the better. It gave them more time to shape your mind the way they wanted."

"That's sort of fucked up," he muses, and Soran hums again. "Is that why you killed someone so easily?"

"You did it first," he repeats, but this time he almost sings it, like it's really that amusing to him.

It probably is. The mindset of a murderer, and all that.

They both have the same one, then.

That's sort of a disturbing thought.

It's more disturbing than realizing he's sharing a backseat with the guy, because he really doesn't think Soran's going to hurt him. Not right now, at least. Maybe in the future, if it comes to that. Maybe not even then.

He's not so sure anymore.

Soran's gone quiet, finally, and Icarus almost pipes up but settles down properly, instead, letting whatever floating thoughts drift away in the hot desert breeze. He probably should let him sleep; like he said, he is doing all of the driving, and for that Icarus should at least be grateful. He probably wouldn't be alive right now if Soran hadn't let him back in the car. He'd have just withered away in the desert, or melted under the sun.

It doesn't seem so stupid now that he's out here.

It does seem stupid to almost, maybe trust someone who nearly killed him once, but stupid is what he's best at.

Estella told him that once, he thinks. It's getting to the point where he can't remember much of what she said.

He guesses it doesn't matter, anymore.

Not out here.

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16  
Applicant #17**

* * *

"You don't look so good," is the first thing she says in nearly three hours or so, and it sounds very stereotypical once it comes out.

It's the truth, though. Meris looks like she's fading, and faster than before. They've been trying to travel more at night, trying to see what they could find, but even that may have not been the brightest idea.

Ria gets the sense that they've been traveling so much because Meris wasn't all that inclined to stop. Stopping meant close quarters, meant the possibility of conversation...

Usually Ria wasn't so inclined to do either of those things herself, but right now they may not have much of a choice.

"I'm good," Meris decides, eventually, but it sounds labored.

"I'm not doing so well either," she admits. Everything hurts in an odd sort of way - her body doesn't have nearly enough hydration to keep going at the pace they're going for much longer. Meris peers back at her, eyes narrowed. There's sweat still pooling in the hollows of her cheeks, creating steady tracks down her temples. Despite the sun having gone down it's still impossibly hot; she can't say she's all that surprised.

"Where do you suggest we stop, then?" Meris asks, flinging her arms about as if to indicate the overwhelming presence of nothing in the immediate area. It's mostly just a lot of flat, a bit of bushes here and there, scraggly and brown from the heat.

"We could go back to that little shack, maybe? It's not that far. At least if we fell asleep we'd have some shelter from the sun when we woke up..."

She trails off, because Meris is staring at her, and Meris is nothing if not a bit intimidating. Meliodas seemed to like her just fine, but he also seemed to get along with everyone, even the impossible ones, so she's not sure how much weight that holds. Sure, Meris made her get up off the ground where she was sobbing, even though it had seemed a bit harsh at the time. She could barely remember the snappish words that had come out of her mouth - it hadn't mattered, really, because they had made her get up.

"Okay." Meris sighs in agreement, rubbing a hand across her forehead. "Let's go, then."

She nods and waits for Meris to pick the pace back up, but she doesn't, not really. It's more listing than before, her feet dragging through the sand. The shack is at least a mile back, maybe two. That wouldn't seem so far in a normal situation, but now it seems like forever.

Maybe forever is doable, though. It's not like they have much of a choice otherwise, to return to a shack that doesn't even have four standing walls.

She thought they should have stayed there in the first place. She should have spoken up then, before they got so far away.

That doesn't matter now, either.

She's no expert in heatstroke, or something slightly less terrible, but she reckons that someone small as herself has less energy to exert. Everything hurts, don't get her wrong, but Meris is probably worse off at the end of the day. She's slightly taller and stockier, not nearly as thin. She's also been walking at a much more determined pace the majority of the time, carrying their bit of supplies.

She steels herself and reaches for the bag still perched on Meris' shoulders. She doesn't so much flinch as she jerks a little in surprise as Ria pulls the bag from her shoulder and then shove's Mel's sweater into it, slinging it across her own arm.

It's all stiff with the dried blood and spittle, now. She tries to ignore the scrape of it across the arm of her sweater every time she takes another step forward.

"Thanks," Meris murmurs.

"No problem. Just take it easy."

Meris could have very easily left her with Mel's body, but she didn't. Maybe that's why she feels sort of responsible for her well-being now, even if that just means she gets her somewhere she can sleep easily for the night. It doesn't feel like an even trade-off, but it's all she's got going for her.

"You know, I had no idea why he was so insistent on bringing you along," she says, before Ria can chastise her for wasting her energy on speaking. Maybe that's just because she wouldn't know what to talk about.

"I still don't know," she admits.

"You're smart. Not to say he wasn't, but we all know how that ended."

She swallows, throat closing up at the memory of it - at all the foam and blood coming out of his mouth, his convulsing body tearing the wound in his stomach back open.

"Smart is good out here," Meris continues. "It's probably going to be the thing that keeps you alive. Not the ability to fight, or to run... just your brain."

Well, her brain is the thing that made them turn around and seek shelter, so maybe Meris isn't wrong. It just feels like she's going to need more than that.

"I think you're pretty smart too."

Meris scoffs. "Not as likely, if you knew me. If I were smart I'd have put him out of his misery instead of letting him suffer, but I'm not."

"I don't think those two things equal out to one another," she murmurs. "You didn't want to see him suffering any more than I did, but you were closer with him than I was. That meant it was harder for you to do anything about it. Harder than it was for me."

Meris grabs her arm around the elbow when she stumbles in the dirt, legs like jelly. She lets go almost as quickly once Ria is steady, apparently not able to focus on talking and walking at the same time, but she appreciates the gesture nonetheless.

She ignores the fact that her killing Meliodas was almost entirely an accident. There's a lot of things that don't matter now.

"See," Meris says quietly. "Smart."

She's not sure she agrees, not on this level. There's nothing smart that goes along with killing one of the only people that trusted you. Maybe the only one.

Maybe not anymore, though.

She looks up at Meris, and doesn't receive a look back. She's so used to Meris scrutinizing her, watching her, observing something even she's not sure exists. This time it doesn't come, no matter how long she waits for it.

That feels a lot like progress, in her eyes.

* * *

I've put a Final 8 poll up on my profile 'cause I'm curious, so if you've scrolled down for... some odd reason, before reading this chap, please read it before you look at that. Spoilers, obviously. Let me know what you thought of this one, and thank you to the few and far between reviewers I get. You mean the world to me!

Also, a good friend of mine has started an SYOT and is looking for submissions. It's called _Absolution_ and is hyperlinked on my profile if you're interested.

Until next time.


	25. Fata Morgana

XXII: Day Four.

* * *

 **Soran Faerber, 18  
Applicant #8**

* * *

He wakes up, almost predictably, to a very annoying noise.

It's something he just _expects_ now, much as he loathes to admit it. It's a thing he very much associates with Icarus now - a particularly infuriating one, but nothing about him isn't, sort of. When he's quiet it's better, or when he's thinking. Soran isn't sure how much of that he really does.

He's not one to talk, anyway.

Icarus just seems confused, most of the time, which is a fair thing to be in this situation. He certainly doesn't talk any less as Soran has come to discover; in fact, it's almost as if this whole thing has made him talk even more, a nervous habit or something. He wishes his nervous habit was biting his own tongue, or at least not constantly contemplating Soran's very existence.

He doesn't like being scrutinized.

Icarus isn't really scrutinizing - just confused about him too, he knows. Soran's not nearly as confused about him, which is the most gratifying part of it all.

When he opens his eyes Icarus is gone, as gone as he could be. He's alone in the back-seat, a small blessing, and one of the front doors is cracked open, blowing in plumes of hot air. Even the seat is already sticky with his sweat, his hair matted to his head underneath the hat. He sits up, rubbing at his eyes. Icarus is perched on the running boards, bashing what looks to be the wrench against... his own hand?

No, not again his hand. Against the bracelet, it looks like. The screen is cracked into a hundred distinct pieces, the metal warped and caving in further with every hit against it.

He crawls into the front seat, wincing at the sudden amount of sunlight in his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?"

He leans over his shoulder, watching. It doesn't look like much.

"Looks like you're trying to take your own hand off, honestly."

"I want this thing off. I don't like them tracking me."

"Us," he corrects. "Considering I'm sitting right next to you."

"Then we'll take yours off, too."

"What if I don't want to?"

"What benefit could you possibly see to having it on?"

He shrugs, having no clue on that matter, but for some reason it seems important. Besides, he's not sure he trusts Icarus going at his wrist with a wrench, not in this century, at least. He waits for him to miss and for him to shatter some bone or other in his wrist; that would be one way to put an end to it, and an effective one at that.

"Have you tried the hammer yet?" he asks.

"One thing at a time."

He reaches into the back pocket of the driver's seat and pulls the hammer out. He squeezes out of the car next to him, feet settling into the dirt. Everything's sort of the same color, now - his boots, his clothes, his skin. Everything's just a dusty sort of brown, tinges of orange and yellow. It's not a big deal, not to him, but it has to be bugging Icarus beyond belief.

"You look like a park ranger, you know."

"That's a fucking insult to how much I spent on this outfit," Icarus complains, shielding his eyes against the sun as he looks up at him. "That's not threatening at all."

Soran is hovering above him swinging the hammer around, just a bit. He doesn't think it's that intimidating.

"It's only threatening if you think I'm going to kill you."

"Haha," Icarus says flatly. "I don't even know what a park ranger looks like."

"That's not a surprise at all." The comparison isn't all that similar - no park ranger anywhere would be wearing as much white or cream or whatever the fuck color it is that Icarus is wearing. So much for blending in. He looks like a patch of snow in the middle of the desert, and the Sentinels will have no difficult time tracking him even if they manage to get the bracelet off. You can spot him from a mile off.

Ignoring the fact that none of them saw him coming when he returned in the first place, but he was distracted.

He yanks the wrench away from him and tosses it into the front seat, grabbing at his wrist. Icarus goes still, frozen more than a statue would be, as he wedges the claw underneath the bracelet.

"Please don't do any long-lasting damage."

"Believe me, I'm trying. I'd never hear the end of it if I did."

He's done hell to this thing already. Some of the metal near the side has thinned out where it's clear he's hit it the most; he twists the claw, trying to gain some leverage. He knows it can't be comfortable, but this was Icarus' idea in the first place, and if he has to suffer even a little bit for it to work then it's his own fault.

Maybe the metal isn't heat resistant, either, but he's not sure. It seems weaker than it did way at the beginning, only three or four days ago now because he can't really remember. All he can recall is pulling at it back in that room and it not budging at all.

It is now, though. He digs the claw further into the contraption that seals it shut and one of the screws pops loose, rolling into the dirt.

Just a little more...

The bracelet pops off with a sharp noise and Icarus hisses in pain, rubbing at his wrist. He picks up the bracelet, now one wide, dangling piece. The screen is completely dark, now. Even before it was still registering something, even if it was hardly visible.

He looks down at his own bracelet.

"Another one bites the dust," he says.

"Really?"

"Yeah, you, genius," he says. "If it's not registering a heartbeat it probably assumes you're dead. Flaw in the system."

"Oh," Icarus says slowly. "Gotcha. So we should get yours off too then, hey?"

"I'm good. I don't trust you with a hammer."

"And I didn't trust you with it, either, but I still let you do it!"

"And who's fault is that?" he asks. "Get back in the car."

Icarus grumbles something under his breath. "You're the actual worst human being. You know I thought hey, maybe this won't be so bad, maybe I'll get out of the house, meet some people, maybe Estella was on the right track here—"

"Am I not considered people?" Soran asks. "Who's Estella?"

"Girlfriend," he answers. "You're considered annoying, is what you are."

"Pot, meet kettle," he says, but it's sort of funny. Icarus thinking of him as annoying is a far, far cry from just outright hating him. Although, if he's being honest with himself, he's not sure Icarus ever hated him. Soran never hated him either, to be fair. He's just a joy to rile up, and his skin was easy to get under. Now he's crawled in and found a home and God, Icarus getting rid of him is going to be a cold day in hell.

"I can't believe you have a girlfriend," he mutters, heading for the driver's seat. "How have you not annoyed her to death already?"

The door to the passenger's side slams shut, almost instantly. He glances back at Icarus, who is very dutifully ignoring him. He climbs behind the wheel, rooting around for the keys.

It all seems very normal, already.

"Had," Icarus says suddenly, looking like he regrets the words almost instantly.

"Had what?"

"Had," he says again. "Had a girlfriend."

Well, he can't say he's surprised. About the odd sense of normalcy, or the past tense.

Like he said - some things are just to be expected.

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17  
Applicant #13**

* * *

She thinks she's in a sort of in-between state right now.

Life and death is a funny comparison when it feels like you're honest to God dying. So much for wishing for a quick and painless death; if this is how she goes, it's easily the most painful physical thing she's ever experienced.

She's managed to drag herself into a little alcove not far from where she woke up, leaving a trail of smeared blood in her wake. There's something wrong with her shoulder, definitely - that slows her progress quite a bit. It doesn't feel broken, really, maybe just popped out. She really wouldn't know the difference and isn't sure it matters, anyway. It's not the side that has her whole arm, thankfully, therefore it doesn't seem nearly as important. As long as she has the power to drag herself away that's really all that matters.

So that's what she does, inch by painful inch. She can't really roll over. The best she can do is lean over onto her side and use the momentum from one arm to pull herself along.

The little alcove is nothing more than a shallow scoop in the cliff's surface, going back about ten or fifteen feet. She drags herself inside, unsure about why it feels like a better, safer place, when it really isn't. Maybe it's because someone could only approach from one direction, now. No one could creep up behind her to do anything else.

And there's no cliff for her to fall of of now, anyway.

It takes her nearly fifteen minutes to drag herself up into a sitting position against the wall, and even that hurts enough to make her stop. It feels like her stomach is about to burst open like a ripened fruit and all the contents will spill over her hands like juice.

Probably not that far off, really. She peels back her shirt, clamping down on her own lip to keep from screaming. The branch is clearly tapered towards the beginning, the bit that's protruding out from her side, but the end she's looking at now is wider and more jagged, very helpfully sticking out of her stomach. She feels bad, but not bad enough. If she got lucky, it missed her major organs. If she didn't get lucky, she's just prolonging her own death. Her and her mother would be suffering a similar fate in that respect, clinging to life when death was just beyond the horizon.

But she made it through the night, even though it didn't seem like she would. Every hour stretched on longer and longer, the blackness creeping in at the edges of her eyes. She refused to fall asleep. She knew she might not wake up if she did.

There aren't many options now. She has the matches but not the energy to collect any of the supplies for a fire. She's not sure what good it would do, anyway. She has no food to cook, or water to boil. She definitely isn't having any trouble staying warm.

There's just the map tucked into the folds of her shorts - it too is stained with blood at the frayed edges, but not enough to obscure whatever it is she's looking at.

She doesn't need a fire. In fact, she really doesn't even need a map. What she needs is help.

The people she was with have clearly abandoned her, or think her dead. She can't say she blames them on that front, because she probably would have left them too. Somewhere in the back of her mind she's still clinging to the fact that Arwen will appear at any moment to help her, make her better, tell her that it's okay to go to sleep.

It's not. Her brain is trying to lull her into that false sense of security. Her traitor brain is trying to give up.

She peels the map part, centimeter by centimeter, careful not to rip any of the edges. She said she didn't need it, but it may be the only thing that has a shot at saving her. Carnelia said if they were to go near the boundaries that they'd be killed - the only way for them to kill her, withering away on the ground like this, would be for them to come and get her. Her pulse is slow and sluggish, her brain foggy. Chances are Carnelia wouldn't come out here to do the deed herself; she'd get no joy out of killing a dying girl. But someone else might come.

It could be the worse gamble she ever makes. They could easily kill her. But for all she knows it's her only shot. The Sentinels wouldn't come out here not armed to the teeth, loaded with items that would keep them alive. Food, water, medical supplies…

She has to do it. If she's right, according to the map, she's not that far at all.

It will mean getting to her feet, something she may not be capable of at this moment in time. It's not that far, but it could take her days if she chooses to drag herself, and she certainly doesn't have that long. She needs to do something in the next day, if she even has that long. It's that or she lies here until things grow too heavy, until she falls asleep for good.

She traces a line on the map to the nearest boundary. East. Just head east, and pray she's right.

"Okay, Em," she whispers. "You got this."

She reaches for the wall behind her and begins to stand.

* * *

 **Sabre Hennedige, 15  
Applicant #6**

* * *

He's very tired.

It's not a certainty, but there's a chance he's never been this tired in his life.

Call it paranoia, maybe, but he's resorted to walking the bike because he's paranoid that he'll run out of gas. Him and Faye didn't make it all that far, and he's still got the extra canister full of the stuff, but he's nervous.

It draws attention, too, and that's the last thing he wants. For now it's better to walk. Hotter, but better.

His legs and feet feel like lead. It's a good thing his heels and toes are already calloused beyond belief from long hours of work at Cortague or he'd be in a world of pain right now, like so many of the others probably are. He stopped looking at the number on the bracelet several long hours ago as it only served as a reminder, a terrible one.

Faye's death hadn't been painless, nor had it been quick, but at least he had the mercy to end it.

It was mercy.

He's not a soldier but he's on marching orders right now, and that requires the right mindset. He can't dwell on what he did back there when it doesn't matter now, and it won't help him to keep walking either. In fact it'll only bring him down if he thinks on it too long, that he knows. It's one of the only things that seems like a guarantee at the moment.

Bit by bit there are little signs of life starting to appear in the otherwise barren desert, he's realizing slowly. A few plants here, a bird swooping overhead there. When he sees them they're small, but they're encouraging. While he sees no sign of water, certainly there will be some soon. If not he may just be forced to stop and rest, lest he get too dehydrated.

For now he seems fine, though, or maybe that's just the delusions of his brain returning from the days back at Cortague, when he would tell himself he was fine and that he could keep going even when he shouldn't have. That was the attitude that got him sent to the hospital, the one that hardly ate or slept or did anything remotely pointing towards self-care.

He's not even sure what self-care is, really.

He stares at every little plant and flower he ambles past, few as they are. He's surprised anything even grows in this rocky sort of terrain, with all the heat and so little water.

He spots it among the others only because he recognizes the picture of it - _atrichoseris_ , his brain tells him, pulling the word back up out of where his brain had stored it. The thin, weedy looking plant that could grow out of almost anything. There are no white flowers like in the picture, but he can see the rapidly withering buds, dying off before they even get a chance to bloom.

Not everything has survived the sun's wrath.

Gravel ghost seems to be an appropriate name for the plant, though, because it doesn't look as if the stem really disappears into anything at all except the hard, crumbly rock. It doesn't even look like it should be alive.

He doesn't remember much about it, but it was edible.

Sabre hasn't eaten in four days.

Maybe a long time ago that wouldn't bug him, but something ticks in the back of his brain. He needs to eat, and it's going to be his choice. He finds himself tapping against the earrings still sunk into his intact ear, avoiding the tears on the other side. A choice of his own, just like those were.

There's a few stalks, a little patch of them. He sets the bike against one of the larger rocks and tears all the other plants away. He's not sure what they are, and he doesn't want to risk it. He meticulously picks through them, brushing away the stone and the worst of the dirt to gently pluck all of the stems out by the weeds, unearthing the little tubers along with it.

It can't be the worst thing to eat out here.

He settles down in the minuscule shade provided by both the rock and the bike and sticks a bit of the root in his mouth. A little bit of juice trickles into his mouth, sharp and bitter, but he chews through the whole bite, small as it is, and then swallows.

A little bit gets caught in his throat and he swallows over and over again, rubbing at his throat, until it goes down.

He can't waste the water.

They don't taste good, really, but nothing is going to, and at least he's confident about this. He knows enough to rely on his own abilities at least for this. Studying the plants wasn't as bad of an idea as it seemed.

If only he had a few things for a trap or two, to catch some real food. Maybe a rabbit, or even a mouse. He was never a big meat eater in the first place, but suddenly it's all he can taste.

That must be what Ria's doing, if she's still alive. He doesn't know what else he'd be expecting her to do. Feeding herself, sustaining whoever else she's with.

Doing more than he is.

He needs to stop doing that, though. He's doing something, small as it is. He's eating. He take another bite of the stem and tears some of the others off with his hands. His fingertips are sticky with it and he pops one of them into his mouth. Every little drop of liquid will count, and he'll take it.

He has water, something to eat, transportation. It's better than those that are dead.

It's certainly much better than Faye.

She would have laughed at him for the gravel ghost, though, made some sort of comment that made him want to rip out his own hair. He hates feeling that way, hates wanting to hurt himself in order to feel bad no matter how small the harm is.

No harm is small, as he's come to discover. Especially not letting go of someone like he did.

But maybe, as terrible as it sounds, he's better off for it. It's a very small maybe in a very large world, and it probably won't matter much anyway, but at least it's something. It's better than what he had a few minutes ago.

And for the first time, he leans against the rock in his little sliver of shade and something, at least, feels alright.

* * *

 **Arwen Paoul, 18  
Applicant #1**

* * *

"So," she says slowly, choosing her words carefully. "You like photography?"

It's a solid _yikes_ on the conversation front.

It takes Jahaira a minute to answer. "What made you think that?"

It's a joke, an attempt at one. It's a pretty terrible attempt, too, but Arwen absolutely will not say that right now, no matter how much she wants to.

She can see her fiddling with the camera through the pocket of her shorts but she's made no move to do anything else with it, not the way she was doing back on the cliff.

"Nothing good to take pictures of anymore, is there?"

Jahaira shakes her head, worrying at her lip. Arwen goes back to staring at the roadless desert in front of them. They're not even going all that fast, really, because she's too afraid of running out of gas and she doesn't imagine either of them are the type to enjoy walking around in this.

"I take pictures too, you know," she offers.

"Of yourself?"

It feels like a dig and probably is, too, but she smirks. It's a sign of fire, at least, and she wasn't sure Jahaira had any of that left in her.

"Don't act like you don't take a few good ones of yourself, either."

"I'm not. I was just imagining that you only take pictures of yourself, nothing else."

"Why would I waste time taking pictures of things that don't matter?"

Jahaira shakes her head, and now there's an amused smile playing at her lips, too, although it's faint in comparison to Arwen's own. She can't ask for miracles here, especially not with someone she was never that close with to start. Her and Myra, she knows, wouldn't have been this awkward, or Jahaira and Emmi. Any other combination seems more sensible.

"How much of your personality is an act?" Jahaira asks.

"Excuse me?"

"You acted different with Emmi than you do with the rest of us. Than you did with Myra. It just seemed more sincere with her, I guess. And if you're capable of being sincere than I would imagine that the rest of you is just sort of fake. No offense, I mean. Don't kill me for saying that."

"Do you really think I'd kill you for that?"

"Well, you let Gideon kill Myra, so I'm not so sure anymore."

"I wanted him to kill her. There's a difference."

"Why?" she asks quietly in response. "There had to have been another way."

"Enlighten me, then," she offers. "Give me a better way. You can go on and defend her - doesn't matter, because she's as dead as the rest of us are going to be, no doubt. I'm not saying Emmi wasn't equally to blame in that equation, but if Myra was supposedly our _leader_ then she did a piss poor job of it. A leader's argument is supposed to resolve whatever sort of tension created the argument in the first place. It's not supposed to end with someone dying."

"She didn't _mean_ for that to happen—"

"And like I said, that doesn't matter," she interrupts. "Because it happened anyway."

Things, as she's come to discover, rarely just happen. Especially not out here. Someone is always planning something, even if it's hiding away somewhere even they don't know about. When you kill someone there certainly has to be a part of your brain that wants it done, whether you believe that or not. Myra had looked shocked, that much was true, but remorse could only stretch so far. It didn't stop her from doing it in the first place.

Arwen was not going to be remorseful about anything except for Emmi, who deserved better than the whole lot of them they had chosen to remain with.

She probably had deserved better than Arwen, too, but there was no point in dwelling on that either.

"I'm sorry for Emmi," Jahaira says. "I know you two were close, and I never really attempted to understand it."

"I never got you and Myra, either," she says. "Sometimes things don't have to make sense to those around it."

That was how she tried to live her life. She didn't care what those around her thought, didn't dwell in the opinions of people who ultimately mattered very little in the grand scheme of things. People like Marquis Penbrook and his father, who should have been important given his mayoral status, they didn't matter much either. What power did a mayor of a small town have, in a country like this? In a country that let this happen to them?

Someone knew about this, she's convinced. Someone sent them to their deaths.

At this point, after Emmi's fall, it's the one thing that's really keeping her going. She wants to live to find out who did it, to say the words aloud. She wants to know who did this to them.

If the Sentinels let one of them live at all.

"I'm sorry too," she says, ignoring the ugly taste the words leave in her mouth. "I know that doesn't make it any better."

"Nothing will," Jahaira murmurs. "That's okay."

No, it's not okay. Jahaira is bright, confident, resolved. Or she was, anyway. She seems to have collapsed into a shell of her former self even after only a few days. On the flip side Arwen feels like her former self has only grown stronger. It was beginning to morph into something else, something better. She almost felt like the type of girl who really deserved things - maybe that had all been Emmi's doing.

And now that she was gone, there was no point in holding onto it.

If the Sentinels wanted them to play a game, then she would play. She was good at that, one of the best - no one could say otherwise or even take that away from her.

Jahaira seemed like an obstacle, but she couldn't shove her out of the way just yet. She couldn't do this all alone.

There was a time and place for everything, after all.

* * *

 **Verity Alameda, 13  
Applicant #3**

* * *

Damas' pulse is worryingly slow.

He's in fitful sort of sleep not far from the river's edge, tucked away in a shed that Percy spent the better part of an hour clearing out before they could set him down. It's not a home, far from it, but it feels a little safe.

Something is hovering over their heads, though, the inevitability of something going wrong.

Something already is going wrong.

She's sitting on one side of him, gnawing on her knuckles to keep from screaming for... no real reason at all, really, except for the fact that it feels like her emotions are getting too big for her body. Percy's leaning up against the wall on his other side, staring blankly over her head. He's been doing that for nearly an hour, and she's not about to tell him to stop.

Yesterday had seemed good. Too good, really. She should have known it wasn't going to last.

She just can't say the word _die_ aloud, because there's still a part of her that can't accept this as real. That would mean Percy was hallucinating when Nicator died all those days ago, that the numbers on their bracelets are only trickling down because the Sentinels are playing mind games with them. It would mean they were just wandering around out here for no real purpose at all.

That would be the kinder thing to believe.

Percy rolls his head back against the wall, eyeing the ceiling before he looks down at Damas once again. His breathing is terrible - a quiet, soft wheeze that shakes his chest and makes him clamp up against the pain even in sleep.

 _He's dying_ , Percy mouths, and she squeezes her eyes shut. If this is all just a hallucination then he's not dying, not really. She'll close her eyes and everything will be good again, like waking up from a nightmare to see the soft morning sun seeping in through the curtains of her bedroom.

She opens her eyes and there are tears in them, this she knows, but she can't manage to tear her eyes away. If what Percy says is true, then Damas doesn't deserve her looking away. Not that he ever would. He seemed like such a strange kid from a distance, him and his tarot cards and his quiet, mumbled musings, but he wasn't so bad. Her mother always told her to be less judgmental.

Being judgmental hadn't gotten them anywhere.

Verity reaches forward and takes his hand, something in her heart clenching when he squeezes back, feebly, and cracks his eyes open to look at her. He smiles.

"Hey," he croaks. "You look sad."

"I am sad," she says plainly, blinking to clear the tears from her eyes. "Sorry."

"Don't need to apologize," he murmurs, readjusting where he lies on the floor. His whole body goes tense again; she reaches for his shoulder to still him at the same time Percy grabs for his legs, holding him to the ground.

"You're making it worse."

"I don't think it can get any worse," he answers, somehow managing to make it sound like a joke, topped off with a strained laugh at the end. "It hurts bad enough already."

Damas, she already suspected, was not afraid to die, but he's afraid now. Of what, she's not sure. Maybe that's why he's still clinging to life after all this time when so many people would have let themselves go. It doesn't seem like there should be this much strength in such a small, fragile body.

"Are you religious?" she asks, desperate to change the subject.

"Not really. Are you?"

"No," she replies. "My mom sort of is - she likes to believe in something. And I like the idea that there's something after you die, I guess, a safe place you can go where nothing hurts and nothing bad ever happens."

"Me too," he murmurs. "I hope there is. I'll get to see my brother again."

She smiles even though the wetness in her eyes is betraying her. "That'll be nice, I'm sure. He'll be so glad to see you."

"I hope so. It's been so long. He probably won't even recognize me."

"He will," Percy assures him. "And even so, you'll recognize him. There won't be any mistaking that."

"My parents wouldn't let me see the body," Damas says. "He had just started working in the kitchens when Carnelia and the Titans killed the President and everyone else left in the mansion. I guess it must have sat there for days before they found it... it was probably a good thing I didn't see it, right?"

"Right," she agrees softly, nodding. She can imagine the horror herself, the image conjuring up in her mind before she can force it away. The discoloration, the bloating, the fluid.. and the _smell_ that the people walking in must have discovered. Rotting foods and rotting people all rolled up into it.

Damas' parents made a merciful choice in keeping him away from that. Now he has nothing but the perfect memory of his brother, one where he could smile and laugh and joke with his younger brother like any sibling would.

Like her brother did.

There's no _would_ for the two of them, anymore. A part of her stomach aches with that, her heart itself. She's never going to see him again, is she? Him and her parents, the dogs... will Willow still sit at the gate in the mornings, waiting for her to fill their breakfast bowls? Will Zeus stay up long into the night, wondering when she'll keep her promise and return?

Will Piper have any memory of her at all?

"I don't want you to cry," Damas says. "Please don't cry."

She chokes out more of an ugly sob than a laugh, but it's her best effort put forward. "Little late for that."

"Everything's going to be okay," he murmurs. "Believe that."

She wants to, more desperately than she's ever wanted anything before. It's one of her last thoughts when she falls asleep at night, one of the first things she's thinking about when she opens her eyes in the morning. It's all she wants to think about for every waking minute.

But those thoughts are destroyed at the sight of Damas and all the dried blood that's become a part of his shirt, at the hollow look that won't leave Percy's eyes ever since they found each other.

Nothing's going to be okay.

It's almost to the point where she started acting like it.

* * *

 **Tarquin Vierra, 16  
Applicant #4**

* * *

He wakes up, and he is alone.

He realizes it in pieces, almost, great big disjointed ones that don't connect immediately and don't make sense even when they finally do. It's like when a few pieces magically escape from the puzzle box and go missing - there's no solving it, then, no matter what you do.

He looks in every direction: left, and then right, sits up as much as he can manage and stares over his feet. Nothing there. He cranes his head back just in case, looking back at an odd, upside down angle that pulls at his neck.

"Jay?" he tries carefully, and lays still for a moment. No matter how quiet he remains there's no response ringing out over the rock, even though he's beyond desperate to hear it.

"Noelani?"

That's not right, he doesn't think. Noelani wasn't back when he fell asleep last night, Topher neither. Was it last night? How long has he been asleep?

There's no one around to tell him. The only thing he knows, with a dreadful certainty, is that he's still stuck in the bear trap.

His whole leg is numb, at least, which would seem terrible at any other time and more like a blessing now. The less he can feel the better, and right now he's not sure how much more pain he can handle.

But he's starting to realize, with more certainty than anything else, that he's really and truly alone. Noelani and Topher never came back, by the looks of it. Jay probably went looking for them, leaving Tarquin asleep. An innocent gesture. A kind one. Of course he wouldn't wake him up, what use would that be? It's not like Tarquin could go with him, or else he would.

They'll probably be back soon, anyway. He has no reason to worry.

He closes his eyes and reopens them close to a dozen times over the course of the next few minutes, staring up at the sky like something will change. He knows, he _knows_ deep down, but he can't say it even to himself.

If they abandoned him...

They couldn't have.

He glances around again, searching for something in the too-bright sunlight at the sound of the pitter-patter of rocks rolling down the hillside, bouncing back and forth across the wide slope of the rock before they come to rest on the flat ground he's found a home in. A few of them inch closer and closer to his legs before they finally stop. Coming from _above_ , not below. Noelani and Topher went down. Unless Jay grew particularly adventurous while Tarquin was sleeping, he doesn't think he would be inclined to risk his life climbing up so high.

But there's definitely _something_ up there, a silhouette of something... a person?

That's probably not very good.

Any of his friends would have answered him. It's not them. Someone else, then. A Sentinel, or one of the other applicants. And it sounds an awful lot like they're trying to creep up on him.

And here he is, stuck in the dirt.

He clamps down on the threat of a scream in his throat and rolls over onto his side when the shadow disappears for a second, facing the other way. Fresh blood wells from his ankle, just a bit. Hopefully not enough to be noticeable. He sucks in one last, huge breath and closes his eyes, making himself go still. His bracelet is still covered, no pulse line to be shown.

Hopefully whoever this is has about as much subtlety as they do smarts. Tarquin certainly feels dead enough to play at it.

The footsteps are growing closer, louder. So much so that it's all he can hear. The wind disappears - everything goes, even the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears.

There's an odd crackle and he nearly tenses.

"I know I said we had dinner, but unless you're in the mood for human flesh..."

 _What_ _?_

There's an even more crackly replies, he suspects, from a radio or something equally old.

"Why should I check?" the voice asks. "You didn't check the one you killed last night, did you?"

Tarquin wants to scream, again, or maybe just start sobbing. It's not a voice he recognizes - a Sentinel, maybe, but that's not what is brain is crying out. He always knew that the Sentinels wouldn't have set this kind of trap, but he was ignoring it. If it's not them, it's someone else.

Who is it?

He hears something else, something that's not quite English. A garbled representation of it, words twisted and turned around each other. It goes on for a minute before the person hovering behind him leans over him, and then there are hands on his ankle, pulling at the trap. Metal against metal.

They're getting him out of it?

This is not an illusion, the way he thought it was. Still, he doesn't get the feeling this person is getting him out because of their good graces. They think him dead, clearly. What, are they going to eat him? It sort of sounds like they're going to eat him, and he really doesn't want to be eaten alive.

There's the sharp sound of something breaking and the trap releases from his ankle. He bites down on his tongue to stop himself from howling like a wounded animal. He has to do something, before they realize. Could he get up and run? He's not so sure. Even if this person isn't the most subtle, they're almost certainly faster than him. He has no chance running.

He waits until they stand back up to crack open one eye, slowly, the one that's nearly mashed into the ground. They continue on with their jumbled conversation - good. At his feet is the two pieces of the trap, broken apart now. He can see the holes clear through his pants and into the skin of his leg, bleeding more freely now.

Surely that should be a giveaway, then? The dead don't bleed the same.

That means he has to do something now, then. He doesn't know who it is. It's not one of his fellow applicants.

Somehow that justifies it, even though he doesn't want it to.

He's never been good at not making emotional, last-second decisions.

He rolls even further, ducking towards his feet. The person above him lets out a surprised noise. Tarquin reaches forward, stretching for a piece of the trap. His fingers are saved by the fabric wrapped between them when they close around the spikes that had been sunken into his ankle. He doesn't even get a good look at whoever's behind him, and it doesn't matter.

He has two seconds before they start to react, certainly. He can't stand up.

He rolls over again, holding onto the trap for dear life. He can't _stand_.

That means it's only going one place, then.

He thrusts the trap outwards, towards the only place he can reach, and the pointed spikes of the trap slam into the person's thigh, spurting out blood all over his hand. They collapse backward at his push, hitting the ground with a great thud that drives the breath out of them. They're bigger than him, taller, but skinnier, almost. Dressed head to toe in pale browns and grays save for the black gas mask that's hiding their face from view.

Oh, this may be even worse than he thought.

They let out an odd, breathless little laugh, still clutching onto the radio. "Warning. This one's still alive. You can't miss him."

Curse his stupid hair.

They reach for the trap embedded in their leg, and Tarquin lets autopilot take over. He reaches backwards, fumbling for the other half of the trap, just as the person rips the other half out of their leg, sitting up. Going to finish him off, presumably.

This may be the most clear decision he's ever made, as terrifying as that sounds. As terrifying as it _is_.

They sit up just as he gets a hold of the trap, and he meets them in the middle when they lunge forward at him, sinking the spikes into their throat. He has to fight through layers of fabric, digging deeper and deeper until he feels blood underneath his fingers, hears the odd, choking struggle concealed beneath the mask. The trap falls out of their hand, and then the radio. He reaches for it with his free hand and drags it closer, up against his legs, where the other man can no longer reach it in his dying struggles.

He listens to the choking for a few seconds and then tears the trap back out. It doesn't take much longer than that, for the body that he's half on top of to fall still. He tears away at his wrist, pulling away the fabric until he can see the numbers across the bracelet.

The body is still, no longer fighting back. The numbers don't change.

It wasn't someone he knew.

The panic is still clawing it's way up his throat, though, as he reaches slowly for the mask, peeling it back from under their chin. He has to knock the hood back off their head, exposing a mass of very normal, dark hair as he pulls the mask up and over their face, all the way past the crown of their head. It covers nearly everything.

Still nothing he recognizes.

It's just... a person. A very normal looking, average person. Older than him, but not by a terrible amount. Dark eyes staring back at him, sightlessly.

It's no one he knows. He's not sure if that's really a good thing, or not.

More unfamiliar words come out of the radio and he flinches, nearly diving off the body in his haste to grab it. He doesn't understand a word of what they're saying, but he can almost guess. Whoever's on the other end is probably wondering what happened, after that last sentence. If they're going to figure it out, he's in some deep shit.

The deepest shit, really.

He's dressed in light, layered clothing, perfect from hiding away from the sun, and boots good for traversing the desert. He even has gloves, a hood to pull up, a backpack crushed underneath the weight of his body. Tarquin can feel the knives digging into the underside of his thighs where he's still perched over-top of him, long, hunting ones. There's something else hidden underneath him, too, the long curve of a bow and arrows attempting to hide away in the mass of his hair.

He's armed. And if Tarquin were to bet, he has supplies in that bag. More than what he's wearing.

And he also has friends who are probably going to rip Tarquin's throat out, when they find out what he's done.

He very slowly lifts himself up, sliding to the ground next to the body. None of his friends are here - that's almost the worst part, if not for the corpse that just died at his hands. It was no one he knew, but what does that matter, really, if he's going to be next? Did he just kill someone for nothing?

No. No, it can't be for nothing.

He takes the mask, and then the radio. Pulls all the knives from his belt and tucks them away, shoving him over inch by inch until he can wrestle the bow off his shoulder and then the quiver full of arrows. That's not going to be good enough. He needs everything - the clothes, the bag, everything he has on him.

God, this is going to be ugly.

He shoves his hands under himself and then grasps at a rock next to him, holding himself steady as he rises to his feet on only one leg, wobbling uncertainly. Everything spins, his head throbbing. The lack of food and water is going to be worse now that he's upright, but maybe whatever's in the bag can solve that. He sets his foot down, tears welling in his eyes at the fiery pain that licks up his ankle like a wildfire. It's fine. He can walk. He'll just act like nothing's wrong.

Because nothing is, nothing at all.

He takes the bag, shoulders the bow and the quiver, and then reaches for the body itself. Standing up like this he can see the mine entrance that Jay pointed out, one hand curled around the fabric at the man's shoulder, ready to pull. He's not even that heavy.

First he flicks the switch on the radio off. He can use that later. Right now he needs to sort this out, and he probably needs to disappear, before someone finds him.

It's just like playing a role. Putting on a costume and going out on stage, and you're someone else.

This man is dead, and he killed him.

In Tarquin's mind, racing and muddled with fear and panic, he won't miss any of it.

* * *

I feel like this is probably about the time I started fucking the numbers up with people running around unaccounted for, so if you notice any discrepancies, I apologize for that. I'm not very good at counting. Or math in general.

The poll results are pretty funny, thus far, but I'll be leaving them up for a bit in case anyone else wants to put their two cents in.

Until next time.


	26. Lay Me To Sleep

XXIII: Day Five, Daybreak.

* * *

 **Gideon Mallory, 16**  
 **Applicant #20**

* * *

There's a quiet peel of thunder, far off in the distance.

He stops so suddenly that Jupiter stumbles into his back, grabbing at his shoulders with a murmured apology. Their voice feels like sandpaper against the back of his neck, and he can see the pain in their face every time they swallow, struggling not to grimace.

He's much the same way. That thunder might be the best thing he's ever heard.

"Rain?" Jupiter asks. "Really?"

"It's not impossible." The clouds closer to the horizon don't look all that impressive, but they are a shade darker than the rest of them. In fact, he can't even remember the last time he saw this many clouds out here - never? There's always been a few, barely-there wispy things that seemed to disappear as quickly as he saw them. There are tons of them, now, and the wind is stronger than before, blowing directly back in their face.

Hopefully that means the clouds are headed towards them.

Jupiter rubs a hand over their face, wiping some of the dust from their eyes. "I think I could die happy if it rained."

He hums in agreement, still staring off in the distance. He's just tired, but it seems like a waste to not keep walking towards it. That, and the sun is covered every so often - walking now isn't as bad as it usually is, when the sun hasn't even fully risen yet in the sky.

Jupiter is still holding onto his shoulder, though, repeatedly rubbing at their eyes. He's not sure how much it's helping.

"You want a piggyback for a bit?" he asks. "I don't mind."

"Walking in sand _sucks,_ " they emphasize, rubbing at their thigh, then. "I've never walked in sand in my life. It's hard."

It's hard on _his_ legs, constantly pulling his feet out of the sinking sand, trying not to trip over the wide cracks in the dirt brought on by lack of rain. He can't even imagine how Jupiter feels with it being an entirely new experience after moving for so much in the first five days as it was.

He bends down, slightly. "Up you get, then."

They frown. "It's just going to make you tire faster."

"You're tiny as shit," he points out. "It'll be like carrying an ant."

They sigh and clamber awkwardly onto his back, taking the bat from his offered hands as they drape their arms over his shoulders.

"Not for very long," they insist. "I don't want you dropping dead on my account."

He doesn't care, really, but Jupiter clearly does, so he keeps his mouth shut and straightens out. He can't remember the last time he actually carried someone for even a few seconds. One of his asshole team-mates back in the Capitol, perhaps, when the whole lot of them would celebrate and spray water over each other after every win. They always jumped on each other then.

Jupiter has to be half the weight of any of them. It's awkward, having almost no human flesh to grab onto. He wraps his hands around the curve of their knees and while he can't see the prosthetics through their pants he can now feel every disjointed angle of them, the odd curves and dips.

The baseball bat bumps lightly against his chest with every step, with every minuscule swing of Jupiter's arm draped over his shoulder.

It's hard to ignore the mess of blood and whatever else still clings to the end of it, whatever came leaking out of Myra's skull when he beat it in. Maybe the rain would serve to fix that as well. It could probably fix a lot of things.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Jupiter asks.

"Just consider yourself my umbrella and it doesn't seem so bad."

"It's not raining yet."

"From the sun, then. And the rain when it comes."

He's not even sure it will; the wind appears to be coming this way, and the clouds along with it, but what are the chances? It probably hardly ever rains here, let alone in the dead of summer when everything around them is so dead that there's no point in rain anyway, some of their fellow applicants.

God, he's getting morbid. More-so than before.

Jupiter rests their head on his shoulder. "I'm tired."

"Because we walked all night."

"That was the smart thing to do, though."

"Take a nap," he offers. "If the rain comes I'll wake you up."

"I don't think you'll need to wake me up if it starts raining. My subconscious will just start screaming. You'll probably be able to hear it too."

Screaming in delight, in delirious happiness. That would be a nice change, same as the weather. He could still hear them retching when he had caved Myra's head in, the goosebumps all the way up and down their arms. He had expected Jupiter to be scared of him, and they weren't. He still didn't really understand that part. Even he was scared of himself, now. That was him - he had a knack for fighting, for running his mouth.

Now he has a knack for killing, too. He just had to pretend he was back at practice with his team, that her head was the ball balanced perfectly on the tee, just waiting to go flying.

He's not sure anyone had noticed, least of all Jupiter, that he had closed his eyes at the first swing. He hadn't even looked, and it had still happened.

Hell would freeze over before he missed. That type of thing was ingrained in him like breathing was.

Again he thinks back to his parents, and Connie. His parents fight their way to the front of his brain before his friend can gain the top shot. They never raised him to be a fighter, he just was. Chances are they didn't want that for him at all. They themselves weren't athletic, weren't sharp-tongued, didn't have that ugly viciousness in their blood like he did.

Maybe he came from somewhere else, then. It's a stupid thought, but it makes more sense than his proper birthright.

Nothing makes sense anymore. He's not sure why he's so surprised that this doesn't either.

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17  
Applicant #13**

* * *

Her plan is in pieces, but it's a plan.

Sort of.

She's never walked at a slower pace in her life - justified, at least, by the branch still stuck in the lower part of her abdomen. Her shoulder is still throbbing dully but it's nothing in comparison to the fire in her stomach, the burn that continues towards the line of her hips.

She hits the sign just before dawn, cracked into two distinct pieces. She almost misses it in the dark, the wood and the crumbled rock and the faded red-pink of the mountains and letters painted on it.

 _Death Valley National Park_ it reads, or at least it would, if it was still in one piece instead of scattered all about the ground, ruined by time.

If she sits, it's a miracle, but it's more likely that she collapses feet away from the sign. Who knows if this is the real boundary. She hopes it is. The map has to be telling her the truth.

It's hours that she sits there for, leaning up against what remains of one of the pillars that used to hold the sign up, only holding her up now. She keeps one hand wrapped around the branch, sometimes holding on too tight. It's such a struggle to breathe that it feels like she needs to hold on, give herself something to do.

She's long since given up on breathing normally, in and out through the nose. Her lips have been parted for so long that they're cracked and bleeding, renewing the taste of blood in her mouth.

As the sun rises she doesn't hear the approaching footsteps, a testament to how sluggish the speed of her brain is. It's not until a foot nudges her in her legs that she looks up, towards the person now standing over her. With the sun she can barely make them out; they're nothing more than a shapeless, black form, clothes rustling back and forth in the breeze.

"If I didn't know any better, kid, I'd have said you were dead."

Their hair is tied back, voice higher. It's not Carnelia.

Well, that's a relief.

She swallows a few times, gets the taste of blood down her throat before she speaks, voice a hoarse rasp. "Who says I'm not?"

The woman bends down and tugs her hand away from the branch, none too gently. It hurts, but she can't even raise the energy to scream.

"Well, judging by your pulse, I'd say you're still alive," she says. "Maybe not for much longer."

"Is that your professional opinion?"

"My medical opinion," she says. "Why do you think I'm out here right now?"

"To kill me, I'd assume," she says flatly. The woman leans back on her feels, examining with her with a scrutinizing gaze. It's a good thing she doesn't have the fight left in her to be irritated by it.

"Maybe," she agrees. "Maybe not. If you were in a position to be _fixed_ they'd rather me go that route, patch you up enough to draw out your life a few days more. Is that what you want?"

"You're not serious."

She shrugs. "Maybe I am. So, what's your answer?"

This woman isn't going to save her life, no, she's just going to prolong the agony, and Emmi can't imagine she's going to do it any sort of kind, gentle way. She doesn't look malicious. Soft around the edges, in fact, very easy light blue eyes. It sort of makes her want water even more, which makes no sense.

"I have to take it out to fix it," she explains. "You know that, right?"

"Do I look stupid?" she asks, gasping when the woman's hand wraps around the edge of the branch and pulls a fraction of an inch.

"Sort of," she says. "You were sitting out here asking for it, after all. That's what you were doing, right? Waiting for someone to come get you."

"How'd you figure it out?" she chokes. She's still pulling at the branch - Emmi can feel everything moving inside her, pushing and pulling against the force. Oh, this is going to be worse than she thought, isn't it?

The woman flattens a hand on her stomach, too. How nice it must be to have two hands to work with.

She pulls, and pulls and pulls and pulls. Her hand leaves her stomach and flattens over Emmi's mouth a second before the first of the screams erupts. It's all she can hear, that and her own blood rushing in her hears. She let go of her stomach only because she has a good grip, pulling and pulling. She feels the end disappear back into her abdomen, the end no longer poking out of her side.

"You want me to fix it?" she asks, and something in her voice sounds terribly genuine. "Say so."

The branch comes out, and the woman's hand falls away from her mouth. With nothing holding onto her she goes tipping to the side, hitting the ground with a limp thud in the ruins of the welcome sign, more wood digging into her side. It makes the shock come back again, the thought of _not again_ sending a tiny little spark through her brain, forcing her to squirm away.

"Say so," she repeats. This woman is not as nice as she looks, or maybe she just wants a bit of groveling first.

Emmi hasn't groveled to someone in years. She isn't about to start now.

She can hardly see, what with her hair in her eyes from the way she's fallen, the dangerous amount of fog creeping in at the edges. Gray, dark gray. Gray seems scarier than black.

It's the same color as the clouds, now closer to her than they are to the horizon line.

She could live, if she wanted to.

And she wants to, but not with this woman's help. She's one of the many reasons why Emmi is lying here in the dirt at all.

She bends over her, head tilted. She looks like a mother bird watching her eggs. Emmi very much feels like a helpless baby bird right about now, so it's not an inappropriate comparison.

"If you want to be sixteen, I can let you," she offers. "Or not. Just _say so."_

"Fifteen," she rasps.

"Sixteen. One of you is out there running in fear, thinking they can escape if we can't track them. I'll admit, it was a smart move, but not smart enough, unfortunately for them."

"You really think you're all letting us run in fear?" she forces out. "Maybe— maybe you're the stupid one then. I don't think we're all running in fear. I think some of us are running loose. And there's a big difference."

There's a huge difference, in fact. She chokes out a horrific, little wheezy laugh, and the woman above her shakes her head, as if in amusement.

"It's small enough."

"Not really," she laughs, forcing a hand under her own side, again sticky with blood. " _Not really_."

Her hand closes around a piece of wood, a few inches long and a few inches wide, and she aims for the center of the woman's face, hardly able to move. She sees blood, not where it hits. The woman pulls back from her hand and takes the shard of wood with her, both of her hands unable to coax all the blood back in that's pouring from somewhere in her face.

Emmi drags herself a few inches closer and reaches for the branch, discarded to the side. She swings her arm about until it cracks into the woman's leg, as wildly as she can, and does it again and again until she falls, still making this awful wailing sound.

She hits the ground next to Emmi. There's so much blood all over her face. Maybe she can't even see.

Emmi grabs the edge of her shirt, the light jacket hiding her shoulders, and drags herself up a few inches. The tip of the wood has pierced right through the bottom of her eye socket and is soaking everything in the vicinity in the blood that ensues.

She can't see at all.

Oh well. Maybe she would feel worse if this was another applicant - hell, even Myra.

She doesn't feel bad at all, though, so she smashes the branch into the woman's face again and again, until there's so much blood she's not sure where the individual slopes and dips of her face ever are, where they had been before Emmi had destroyed them.

She only calls it quits because she can no longer force her arm to keep swinging the branch, up and down, up and down. She drops it - it hits the woman in the face and bounces off.

She almost laughs again, and then collapses by her side.

There's no number change to indicate death, nothing except for a ring of red, flashing light around the screen of her bracelet. She holds it up above her head. It's just so much red. She can't even begin to imagine what that means, but...

She just killed one of them. It's a very distant thought, but it's there.

Emmi tilts her head to the side, allowing herself to look at the body again. The woman was going to fix her, this nameless and now faceless woman. She was going to fix her. There's a pistol and a machete in her belt, along with a few small knives.

That's interesting. She's very tired, though.

It's going to rain soon; she can feel it in her bones because she can feel almost nothing else. She can't go to sleep here - she doesn't want to get soaked.

She already is.

She reaches for the strap of the woman's bag and gives a single experimental tug. It's heavy; it would be heavy no matter when Emmi tried for it, but heavier now with the weakened state of her muscles, the exhaustion.

It would be so easy to sleep. Her mom wouldn't want her to sleep, not like she did.

She can't. She's not going to.

For now she remains awake.

* * *

 **Percius Marigold, 17  
Applicant #2**

* * *

Someone's shaking his shoulder.

For a long, delirious moment he allows himself to believe that it's Nic. It seems better that way, more peaceful. Like normality. Hell, right now he'd accept either one of his mom's waking him up even earlier than he gets up on his own, a gentle hand on his shoulder.

If that was the case everything really _would_ be okay. They would keep him safe from harm; they'd let themselves get hurt before they let the same happen to him, that he knows. That's all they've ever done, and all they would ever continue to do should he get back home.

He's probably not, though. It's not as terrifying admitting that as it used to be.

"Percy," Verity insists, prodding at him harder. "Percy, jesus—"

"What?" he mumbles, keeping his eyes shut. It's the first time he's slept without some nightmare or other plaguing him the whole time. In fact, he doesn't remember falling asleep in the first place. That's what happens in the calm and the quiet, when there's nothing else going for him.

"Percy, he won't wake up. He's still breathing, but he won't wake up."

His eyes are still blurry with sleep when they snap open, too fast, and everything spins. Right, the by-product of not eating for so long. He should probably figure that out soon.

But something else is taking priority over that - Damas. He's in the same position he was when Percy fell asleep last night, curled up on his uninjured side, taking quiet, wheezing breaths. Percy can't hear him making those same noises now. If not for the minuscule rise and fall of his side as he breathes, Percy would think him dead without even moving to check.

"I was going to ask if he wanted to go out and get some water, but he won't wake up," Verity says, voice rising in pitch. "I didn't want to move him too much, but he won't respond to anything..."

His legs are still absolute mush, so he slides awkwardly over in Damas' direction, pausing just behind his back.

"What's his pulse at?"

"Uh, it's hovering around 50?" she says slowly, gently turning his wrist. "It goes up a bit, sometimes. Is that bad?"

"Why are you looking at me?" he asks. "Do I look like a doctor?"

"Well, I don't know!" she exclaims. "You're older, you've probably been in like, a better health class or something, right?"

Yeah, right? That's what he wants to quip back but it won't help at all. If he's being honest, he wishes Verity just hadn't woken him in the first place. Better to sleep through this than be awake to deal with it all, considering he doesn't know what to do about anything.

There's no telling what's going on. An infection, maybe? His body could just be shutting down. It's been five days, for crying out-loud, and they've done hardly anything to stop it besides try to tape the wound shut. He's had nothing to sustain him, nothing to help the healing process.

People don't just heal on their own the way he would need to.

"What do we do?" Verity asks, and he squeezes his eyes shut. There's nothing they can do. He's dying. He knew that last night.

He's known that, almost inevitably, since he found the two of them in the first place.

There's no fixing something that doesn't want to be fixed, something that was already broken in the first place.

"Just leave him be," he instructs. "Stop poking at him."

"But—"

"You asked me what to do. Stop."

He can see the frustration in her clenched fists, in the way her eyes keep looking around, waiting for someone to come and help them. He feels just as useless, but he's felt that way since Nic died. It's hard to raise any real energy to be mad about it when it's become a part of him.

"I don't want him to die," she murmurs. "He doesn't deserve to die."

 _Do any of us?_ his brain asks, and then, _too late._

Verity flattens herself to the ground alongside Damas and scoops up his hand, once again, cradling it between both of their own. Sometime she seems older and sometimes younger - this time is one of the latter, something about her looking tragically small and fragile as she stares at his very peaceful sleeping face.

At least he looks peaceful. That's one thing he's got going for him.

Percy waits for quite a while, convincing himself not to go back to sleep. Verity would kill him, certainly, a fate he's pretty sure he does not want to suffer. Suffocated in his sleep, most likely, by a thirteen year old girl half his size. Not the ideal death.

Not that he has one. He'd prefer no death above all.

Damas' hands twitch in Verity's death-grip. To be honest, Percy is surprised the kid even has any feeling left in them after the punishment Verity has inflicted on them.

He stays put, ignoring his urge to get a good look at Damas' face as his eyes crack open, no more than a few millimeters between open and closed. He looks at Verity distantly, like he's having trouble recognizing her. His mouth opens slightly, closes again. He hears that wheezing breath again, but it's worse now. A hundred times worse.

"Hey," Verity whispers. "You don't have to talk. Everything's alright."

Chances are he can't talk, not anymore. Not enough air left in his lungs, trying hard as they are. He pulls his hand from Verity's grip and reaches into his pocket, searching feebly.

Percy's the one to pull his hand away and reaches in himself. He pulls the worn cardboard package out containing the tarot cards and rests them flat in his palm. They're smaller than he thought they would be.

"We'll keep them," Verity answers, to an unasked question. "Don't worry."

Damas smiles, barely, and the breath he lets out then sounds almost like a relief. She reaches for his hand again when he closes his eyes, but this time her grip is gentler, softer.

And Percy knows, in the pit of his stomach. He just knows.

Sitting like this on the ground next to him, Percy realizes just how small he really is. Smaller even than Verity, than anyone else he's certain. The smallest of them all.

They're both right. He knows that none of them really deserve to die, but Damas deserves it the least of any of them.

And yet when his eyes closed, for what Percy knows is the final time, he didn't look scared at all.

It takes a lot of unique bravery to act that way. Percy almost wishes he would wake one more time so he could say that to him. Maybe he's wrong, and hopefully he is, but he can almost guarantee that no one has ever told Damas that in his life.

He's braver than most of them too.

It's only a few minutes, in retrospect, but it feels like hours. Percy watches the gaps widen, between the breaths he takes. Every time he waits for it to be the last one; they all have that heaviness to them, accompanied by a terror that he knows is pointless.

He doesn't notice when it finally stops.

What he does notice is the line on the bracelet, gone flat.

* * *

 **Jahaira Aurelion, 16  
Applicant #23**

* * *

When Arwen laughs, she jumps nearly a foot into the air.

A few raindrops splatter all over her arms, though, and she takes a deep breath. Arwen is holding her arms out to the sky and laughing, and well, Jahaira gets it.

She smiles, too. The rain is cold, colder than she expected.

It feels like a miracle.

She's still not sure if she feels any sort of connection to Arwen, not like she wants, but this mood she can at least understand to it's full potential. She's something of an enigma - Jahaira feels like she knows her, and doesn't a single beat later. It's a tricky balance.

But right now this is just pure, unbridled happiness, a moment in which all of the horrors of the past few days have faded away.

"The bottles," she says, slightly breathless. "We should refill them."

Arwen nods. The rain is coming harder, now. The clouds aren't very widespread, dark as they may be. It's probably not going to last long, so as much as she'd love to dance around in it, forget everything that's happened, she knows it's not allowed. It would be, maybe, if they were all still here together. She can imagine it with an eerie amount of clarity, banishing the image that appears in her head almost as soon as it forms.

She reaches into the backseat and starts pulling out the load of empty water bottles, setting them down by her feet one by one. Arwen still hasn't moved that she can tell, shielding her eyes from the downpour as she looks up, mouth opened wide.

She's so eager to get back out there, away from the shelter from the car, that she almost misses the figure running towards them. In fact, she's not sure how many times she _does_ before she spots them, a soaked little figure peeling towards them in the downpour towards the back of the car.

"Arwen," she warns. "Arwen, look."

Arwen turns, still with a sort of delighted look on her face, one that quickly falls at what she sees. The bottles forgotten, Jahaira takes a few paces back, hand instinctively reaching for the shovel lying in the backseat. It was Myra's, she felt like. Myra was the one who found it, the one who insisted it be put in the car along with the rest of them.

It's hers, now. It has to be.

"That's one of us," Arwen says. "It's too small to be anyone else."

"Small or not we've got like thirty seconds tops before they're here."

"Hold onto that, then," Arwen suggests, headed even closer. Jahaira hurries to follow, brandishing the shovel like it's a damn sword, like she really knows what she's doing at all. Chances are it's not fooling anyone.

Upon closer inspection it's definitely one of them. One of the younger boys, Noelani's sibling. She can't even remember his name.

She used to wonder how tributes couldn't remember everyone else's name. Not anymore.

The closer he gets, until he's nearly upon them, she realizes just how hysterical he is. What could so easily be considered the rain almost looks like tears of relief, instead, ragged breaths tearing from his throat even over the sound of the rolling thunder. He slides to a halt, nearly slipping in the freshly wet dirt, bent over with his hands on his knees, struggling to breathe.

He's still doing it when he looks behind him, eyes searching the horizon.

"Is someone following you?" Arwen asks. "I swear to fuck if you just led someone to us—"

"I don't know!" he cries, a pitiful. "Someone.. someone..."

"Someone what?" Arwen snaps. She reaches for his arm, thinking better of it before she comes into contact.

"Noelani," he chokes. "Someone killed her. It wasn't— it wasn't any of us, they killed her..."

"Who?"

"I don't know!" he repeats, voice rising into a thin, reedy wail. She hates the sound after hearing only two seconds of it. "I don't know, I don't know, I'm sorry. I went back and Tarquin and Jay were gone, and there was just so much blood, I didn't know what to do. I'm _sorry."_

Jahaira's not sure who he's apologizing to here, certainly his dead sister who he must believe is somehow listening. His apology other than that is falling on deaf ears, to Arwen who mostly just looks perplexed, and herself, who is very much still clutching the handle of the shovel with an intensity she shouldn't be. He's clearly not any harm to them.

She can't force herself to put it down.

Maybe it's the anger that she's been nurturing down in some unknown pit of herself, the only emotion she's been able to feel over than overwhelming despair at all of this. Anger that Myra and Emmi are gone, anger that Gideon and Jupiter took off.

Anger that she's stuck with _this_.

She's not an angry person. No one knows her as that. She doesn't not care the way she does right now, not ever. Sometimes she doesn't get it, sure, and she certainly doesn't now, either. But this is too much.

He's no liar - Noelani is dead, too, and even though she had next to no relationship with her that strikes a chord. They're the same age. Of the same cut, really.

Jahaira will end up just like her, dead at some unknown expense. No camera will be able to capture that.

He looks at Arwen. _Topher_ , her brain ever so helpfully informs her, but it changes very little.

In fact, it changes nothing.

"I'm sorry," he says again, looking her dead in the eyes, and they're the last words he gets out before she swings the shovel.

Perhaps it's the shock that keeps him from crying out in surprise, the same way she sees Arwen's mouth fall open, slightly, before the shovel connects with his skull. It makes a very dull thud, tremors traveling back up her arms from the hit. She drops it, everything tingling all the way up to her shoulders and watches him careen to the ground instead, motionless.

There's a very odd dent in the side of his dead. She didn't think she was that strong.

"What did you just do?" Arwen asks, voice slightly strained.

"I... I killed him?"

"No you fucking didn't," Arwen insists. "Christ, he's still alive. You couldn't have hit him harder?"

"I thought I did!" she shouts. It was as hard as she _could_ hit him, what else was she supposed to do? Hit him again?

Maybe. Probably. But now the shovel is lying at her feet, while she almost certainly just knocked someone out to the point where they may never wake up again. That's more comatose than anything else, hard as that is to admit, and he definitely is still breathing.

"What do we do?" she asks. Arwen looks around for a bit, as if waiting for a solution to appear out of thin air.

They're wasting a lot of time not filling their water bottles whilst dealing with this.

Arwen snatches the shovel away from her feet, passing it from hand to hand like a baseball bat. If only Gideon was here. He could figure this out, having already brained one person to the point of death. Apparently he's better at it than she is.

Unsurprising, really.

Arwen does not go for the braining method, instead choosing to bury the sharp end of the shovel in the top of his head, like she was scooping out the inside of a melon, licking the sticky juice away from her fingers.

Not good to think about it like that, she discovers, when she nearly retches.

"Okay," she says, weakly. "I think— I think he's dead."

"You think, or you know?" Arwen quips. "Fucking check."

She looks down at the bracelet, swiping away the water that's gathered on the screen. It's definitely a number lower - two numbers, actually. She doesn't even want to imagine. Topher definitely looks significantly dead, as well. It's pretty easy to put two and two together.

"Uh, he's dead," she says flatly, swallowing hard. Arwen pulls the shovel out with a horrific sounding noise, bits of brain and bone stuck to the edge of it. Yet another similarity they have to Gideon and his bat, now. This is almost worse because of how small he is, practically defenseless in his desperation. Myra was defenseless, too, but at least she didn't look so weak. At least she would have fought back, had she gained the chance.

She doesn't think Topher would have.

Arwen buries the tip of the shovel back in the earth, leaning on it with a heavy sigh. She rests her forehead on the top of it, sighing heavily.

"Go fill the water bottles," she says flatly. Jahaira nods, quickly, and practically sprints back to the car. Not once does she turn around.

She's just going to fill the bottles. Nothing else.

It's almost like nothing even really happened, if she doesn't look back.

* * *

 **Meris Loucare, 17  
Applicant #15**

* * *

"Can you get a cold from sitting out in the rain?" she calls back.

"Not the rain, no," Ria says. She's vaguely wet, some of the strands of her hair sticking to her face, but not soaked like Meris is allowing herself to be. "I'm not sure in any irradiated zone it's a good idea to sit out in it, but it's been so long..."

She looks over her shoulder back at Ria, sheltering against the wall.

"It's probably fine," Ria decides. Probably fine is good enough for Meris. She has no inclination to move, instead flopping back to the ground on her back, letting the rain splatter all over her face.

"You shouldn't sit out for too long, though," Ria expresses. "The jump from hot to cold like that won't do you any good in the long run."

She nods, raising a thumbs up into the air. Another minute or two will do. It feels good right _now_ but Ria is probably right, and she has to trust her brain over her own. There's a very large jump in intelligence there and even she isn't about to deny it.

The time she allotted herself to spending in the rain is over far too soon, punctuated by Ria hovering over her a few short minutes later, hand outstretched as if to help her up. That's a gesture of good faith if she's ever seen one, an unusual one for someone such as Ria, so she takes it. Can't pull too hard without bringing her toppling to the ground all the same, so she uses it as an anchor instead to bring herself back to her feet. It's not until she's standing again that she's reminded of just how tiny Ria really is. It wouldn't be hard to mistake her for someone much younger, if not for the sharp look in her eyes.

Ria probably thinks the same thing about her, the odd reverse. No doubt she looks older than she should.

It's probably a good thing out here, but it hasn't helped them in the slightest. They haven't solved the mystery of who or _what_ attacked Mel when the two of them weren't around to stop it, they haven't done much of anything, really.

Besides sit in the rain. Meris allowed herself that much, at least.

"I have an idea," Ria announces as the two of them head back into the little shack, away from the worst of the rain.

"Shoot."

"The bracelet is obviously equipped with some sort of tracking mechanism, a chip or something like it. But I think it's unlikely that the Sentinels had the exact technology the Capitol did, so chances are it's slightly more primitive."

"This is primitive to you?" she asks, tapping on her own bracelet. "I'd hate to figure out what's advanced."

Ria cracks a little smile. "I don't think they can really be that far off, if they're properly tracking us. The Gamemakers could afford the distance, but I don't think it's the same with them. So they're close by - not a good thing, normally. But if they are then chances are they've seen the same things we have. _They_ probably know what's out there."

"You think?"

"It's an optimistic guess."

"So, what?" she wonders. "You want to rock up and ask them? I don't think they'd take too kindly to that."

"No, not quite," Ria says. "I think they're probably lying low, in order to avoid the same things happening to themselves. But if we were to remove the trackers, theoretically speaking, that would bring them out, right? It would put them at risk from the same outside forces..."

"That got Mel," she finishes. "Christ."

Well, that's one possible way to solve their problem. If they could stay alive long enough to outlast the Sentinels, then that would do them some good. No one would be able to stop them from getting help then.

"I think with some work I could get mine off," Ria says. "And then yours, but I want to figure it out first. I don't— I don't want to risk hurting you."

"You think it's going to hurt?"

She shrugs. "I don't think that, necessarily, but I'm worried about that. I don't want to test that theory out on you."

Ria is far more willing to hurt herself than others, is what she discovered, and that's what makes Mel hurt so bad in hindsight. Back then, only a few short days ago, Ria's pleas and apologies had fallen on deaf ears. She had killed him, for crying out-loud. There was no avoiding that.

What Meris is slowly beginning to realize is that not a single part of her wanted to - hell, it's looking more and more likely by the minute that Ria didn't mean to do it at all.

It doesn't change the fact that he's dead, but it makes it a little better.

That's sort of sick, when you think about it.

"Do you think we should?" Ria asks, peering up at her. With the edges of her hair plastered to her head, wrapped up in both her sweater and Mel's against the sudden oncoming chill, she looks like a child.

She is. Meris is too, but she doesn't often feel that way.

"Why not," she sighs. "You're the genius."

"I'm not—"

"More than me you are," she interrupts. "Let's do this."

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17  
Applicant #10**

* * *

"Why are we stopping?" he asks blearily.

Definitely not on the fast track to falling asleep, as he seems to do so often, even when he doesn't want to.

"It's raining."

"Thank you," he says flatly. "I hadn't noticed."

"I know your delicate constitution won't allow you to walk around in the rain, but—"

"Shut up."

" _But_ ," Soran continues. "We're running low on gas."

He blinks a few times until those words really sink in, sitting up to glance at the numerous signs and ticks behind the wheel. Soran points at one of the gauges with a sigh, the one that appears lowest of all. Not quite all the way to the bottom, but getting there.

There's a little cluster of buildings twenty feet ahead, blurry shapes in the rain that don't become clear even as they roll to a gentle stop just behind them.

"Gas?" he asks.

"Maybe." Soran shrugs. "Gotta go look to find out."

Even after Soran's abandoned the car, disappearing out into the rain and into the darkness of the building, it takes him a moment to move. The thing that finally makes him step out of the car is the thought that _something_ could go wrong in there while he's sitting out here minding his own business. Because he cares, apparently, slightly and no more than that.

Obviously.

He clambers out of the car none too happily about it, scooping up the broken bottle and tucking the wrench away in his pocket before he heads in after him, into the grayness of the building. The icy rain has fogged up all the windows, though only a few have been left intact anyway, and even the ones that are have boards having off of their edges, rusted nails threatening to fall to the ground. There's already shit everywhere underneath his feet, glass and broken ceramic and scraps of fabric. He's not even sure what he's looking at, really. Most of what had been in this building must have been torn out, the places where it would have made sense for people to stand, to sit.

It looks a little bit like a diner, like the old fashioned ones the Capitol seems to adore so much. The counter spanning almost all of the leftmost wall is still standing, although the top has been chipped away, turned brown and black over time.

The appliances look as if they've been taken to with a machete, but he swears he's not imagining the faint traces of gasoline he can smell in the air.

There's a loud crash from the back and he jumps, tightening his grip on the bottle.

"Soran?" he asks. No response. Fuck's sake.

He eases behind the counter and peers into what is certainly a kitchen, or at least used to be. There's not much in it, a few supply closets opened up and emptied out. He turns back, towards the only other option he can see, a hall next to the front entrance.

There's a set of two bathroom doors, one of which is nearly hanging off it's hinges. He doesn't even consider opening them; you couldn't get him to, not for any amount of money in the world. It's darker and darker the further he gets down the hall with no windows to be seen, and he edges the last door open even further than it already is.

No Soran in that room to be seen, either. A break room, maybe. There's a few letters left on the door - a few lowercase e's, along with an n and a y on the bottom. Employee's only? Probably.

There's a fridge, brown with age, but the smell is only slightly foul. There's a table balancing on only three legs and remnants of chairs lying around it's base, scattered about in several different pieces. Another line of counters, and a wide open door—

Oh, there he is. Something in him deflates. Soran lets out another curse as he knocks something over off the shelf he's rummaging through.

"You couldn't have answered me?" he questions, stalking through the last door and the bit of halfway that separates them.

"Couldn't hear you," Soran insists. He shoves the hammer at Icarus' chest so there he stands, an armful of makeshift weapons clutched against him as Soran begins to clamber up the shelf like a damn squirrel. Icarus sees what he's going for, though, an oddly shaped canister up against the wall, nearly hidden behind a few cardboard boxes.

The back door is blowing in a faintly chilly breeze through the shattered window. He stares as far off into the distance as he can see, wondering how the hell he ended up in this situation.

Soran hits the ground with a thud, nearly careening over with the canister tucked in his arms.

"Not quite full, but almost," he says, shaking it again as if to prove a point. "We should probably pick through here anyway, see if there's anything useful we could take with us. We could spend the night here."

"Could we?"

Soran shrugs. "I don't see why not. Unless you want to spend another night fighting for the back-seat."

They haven't been fighting lately, though. Soran stops the car and dives back there before Icarus can beat him; he tumbles back there himself when he grows tired and Soran moves just enough for him to lay down.

"What's with the face?" Soran asks.

"I'm not making a face."

"Yeah, you are," Soran points out, while he's working out exactly what is is he's doing. "You look like your brain's all twisted up. That, or you're having an aneurysm, I'm not sure which."

"In your dreams," he scoffs. "You're not getting rid of me that easily."

"As I've come to discover," Soran says. "So, are we staying here, or not?"

"You're actually asking my opinion?"

Soran leans against the shelf, arms crossed against his chest - his eyes look very, very dead inside, before he rolls them. He too glances out the back door, almost like he was wondering what Icarus was staring at a few short minutes ago, except there's no way he noticed. Soran doesn't notice that much, and he's not about to give him credit for something he doesn't really do.

He bumps against Icarus' side when he strides back, headed back into the previous room. He turns to watch him go, still with the handful of weapons. Soran's got the gas, but he has all the weapons.

He could kill him, he realizes. And that means, indirectly, that Soran trusts him enough not to.

Which isn't really all that odd, because it took him so long to think of it in the first place. He wouldn't actually kill him. Maybe he _should_ , before his brain gets anymore confused.

He's not even sure what is brain is confused about these days.

"We can stay," he announces, out of the blue, which is about the stupidest thing he could have said. They were already staying - Soran basically told him, and that's evident in his face when he turns around in the hall to look Icarus in the eye, for once. Something about looking Soran in the eye makes him squirm, and he's having difficulty figuring out what it is.

"Aye aye, captain," Soran says at long last, a cheeky smile on his face when he salutes him, mockingly to the full extent.

The worst part is, he finds himself smiling too, even after Soran turns back around, continuing his descent back into the building.

He's having trouble getting rid of it, like a lot of things.

He's not all that surprised.

* * *

Day five starting off not so good, I say, as if any of these days really have. I feel like I felt worse about this one though for the most part.

Let me know what you thought, please.

Until next time.


	27. Awful Creatures

XXIV: Day Five, Evening & Night.

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16  
Applicant #17**

* * *

She's relieved when Meris finally falls asleep.

She's still tinkering with the bracelet, a noise that Meris must be able to ignore for how easily she's out of it. Maybe the noise is just something she's used to.

The rain has stopped, leaving everything an eerie sort of quiet. She can hear other things, though, different things. Birds and bugs, faint noises hovering in the air above her head that weren't there before, called by the rain. Even the floor of their little shack is wet with it, just damp enough to be noticeable. She's still layered up, still clutching her sweaters around her, but even she can notice it. For once, though, the cold is a welcome thing. She almost forgot what it was like to be cold.

She's managed to pull something from the side of the bracelet, nearly the size and shape of a needle, maybe a little thicker. She's not sure what it is, but it's serving as a good tool to wedge between the seams of the bracelet, trying to get it off.

It's hard, though. She wants to keep it as intact as possible, for some future use. The components of it have to be useful, that sort of technology would be good no matter where you were, but out here when they have virtually nothing it's even more important. Who knows what it could do for them then.

Against the wishes of her own brain she wants to draw something out. The Sentinels, or the unknown hiding in the barren mountains. Something out there wants to give chase, she's sure of it.

Maybe all of it will come out at once.

Then they're probably dead, much as she doesn't want to think about it. All of this will be for nothing. Her efforts now, Mel... for nothing.

It all sort of feels like it's for nothing anyway. There's no guarantee any of them really live after this.

What kind of life would be out there to live, anyway?

She pulls the sleeve of matches out and accidentally upends a few of them onto the ground, abandoning the bracelet in her quest to pick them all back up before they got too damp to use any further. Her fingers are pruny, wrinkled from the wetness that has been plaguing them, and she can't even be angry at it because for once in the past five days she's not sweating.

How odd it is, to be grateful to not be sweating. Maybe Meris is right - if she'd quit it with the layers, she probably wouldn't be so bad off.

She wedges the little needle between the point where the bracelet joins up into one piece, she's sure, and then strikes one of the matches against the box, cupping the tiny flame in-between her hands to protect it from the strong wind still blowing in off the mountains. She keeps her hand cupped over top of it even as she lowers the flame into the tiny gap the needle has created, exposing the two latches that are keeping the bracelet closed shut. She can feel the bright little point of heat against her wrist.

It seems like a distant, faraway thought now, but burns really aren't that bad. Not in comparison to most things. It's making her pulse spike, this little source of heat so close to her skin, but otherwise she remains unharmed.

That's the ultimate goal in all of this. To remain unharmed, even if she hasn't said that aloud.

She's not keeping any secrets. There's a difference. What she's doing is keeping some things to herself, things that may or may not happen. It's not a secret, or worse, a lie, if it's never going to come true.

She's certain freeing herself from the bracelet will cause some sort of alarm, and if someone comes after them, then so be it. She'd rather it off.

What she knows, as terrible as it is, is that if someone _does_ come after them, especially the Sentinels, it will be much easier to get away if they can't properly track her. She can pitch the damn thing off a cliff, draw them off her trail.

It's what else that means that kind of stings, deep down. Meris' is still on. They'll have no trouble finding _her_.

The worst bit is she doesn't even dislike her. All of this would be so much easier if she did, if Meris was a person worth hating. She could have left Ria alone, and she didn't. She could have abandoned her every moment since then, and she hasn't.

She, despite her belief otherwise, is a good person.

Ria is beginning to think there's a chance she isn't.

 _She_ killed Mel. Yes, they both left him to wander alone in the first place, but that means nothing. She was the one who left him unsupervised long enough for him to hurt himself beyond repair. _She_ was the one who finally put him out of his misery, accident or not.

She's back to wondering if it really was an accident. Surely some part of her brain knew what would happen if she covered his face the way she did. He already had a lack of oxygen going to his heart, his brain; she spurred that further along by cutting it off entirely because she was sick of seeing him suffer. Maybe she didn't want to end his life, but a part of her knew she was.

She is not a good person. Not now and not then, either.

There's a part of her, different to the one that seems to manifest itself every other day, that killed Mel. It's that same part that leads her to believe abandoning Meris will be easier if she gets the bracelet off. One ally dead at her hands, the other left behind.

One thing she didn't have to do, and one thing she doesn't.

But there's still time.

The match's flame finally goes out, burnt to the end. The metal inside is softened, slightly, and she pokes the needle into it, again and again until it begins to come apart, disappearing right before her eyes. Another few simple pokes and the bracelet opens around her wrist. She lifts it up to eye level. The screen is still working. Her pulse has gone flat, that was to be expected, but everything else seems to be operational.

She looks at Meris' sleeping form, curled up by her side. The proper thing to do would be to wake her up right away, get hers off as well.

She doesn't. She leans back against the wall and folds the bracelet around her wrist a few times, seeing if it will close again.

It doesn't. She made sure of that.

And now she has to decide what else she's going to make sure of, too.

She's not this malicious, awful person. She would never wish something terrible on anyone, least of all the only person she has left, one who has stuck by her side even when Ria was sure she doesn't want to.

Fear does weird things to people, though.

She's living proof of it.

* * *

 **Tarquin Vierra, 16  
Applicant #4**

* * *

He loses track of everything.

Time, day, even himself, all of it disappears when he plunges into the mines and lets the darkness take him. After that it goes down to nothing but counting his own footsteps, trying to wager a guess as to how many more he can take before he collapses.

First he takes everything off the corpse, a young man who stares sightlessly up at him the entire him, accusatory even in death. He changes into his clothes, peels his soaked through pants away from his ankle and tosses everything of his own belongings down into a crevasse so deep he can't even see the bottom. The body follows, and he watches it slam into a few rocks before it disappears from sight. He scuffs his foot through the smears of blood it leaves behind, as much as he can before he can no longer balance on his bad ankle.

He stares down into the crevasse for a long while too, as if waiting for the man to climb back up and kill him.

But he doesn't, so Tarquin slips the gas mask over his head, pulls the hood up for good measures, and takes off deeper into the mine.

There were a number of things in the bag, including an ancient looking flashlight that he pulls out now to illuminate the tunnels ahead of him. Everything is already a slightly off-gray tinge because of the mask clinging to every dip in his face, but the flashlight cuts through some of it, a few feet that just has to be enough.

He wraps his ankle once he's further along, pries one of his new boots off at the junction between two tunnels and uses the stained bandages in the guy's backpack to effectively seal his ankle back together, pulling them tighter and tighter, layer after layer, until there's no blood spotting through. He chokes down two pills he finds in a rattling bottle in a sealed pocket before realizing there's water, too, and downs nearly the entire bottle he first grabs just trying to rid the feeling from his throat.

He recognizes the word _acetaminophen_ , something about pain medication, he's sure, and he can use all of that that he can get.

Even if it so happened to be bad, he's already in a less than ideal state.

It couldn't be any worse.

Noelani and Topher both left and never came back. Jay left him willingly, he's certain, left him to get attacked by some stranger in the middle of the desert. That stranger is dead now because of him, body never to be found unless someone gets creative in their looking.

He feels like he's wearing that stranger's skin, now. They were about the same size. Although he's limping he doesn't doubt that from a distance someone would think of them as the same person. That's the entire point of his disguise.

There's no telling what type of people he's dealing with, though, besides the one example he's been given. Someone who sets traps for animals, normal enough, but who seemed almost _eager_ to kill him, like they've done it before. Like they're thirsting for it now that they've had a taste of blood.

There are people out here. People living and breathing and existing out in this desert, down in these mine-shafts.

Have they been here since the Dark Days, them and their descendants?

It would explain the mask. Someone trying to protect themselves from the early instances of radiation would have remained heavily covered, breathing in filtered air most of their lives. It's like a family heirloom, passed down from generation to generation. Once a means of protection now it serves as a disguise, something used to hide the face from the world outside.

That's exactly what he's using it for as well. He doesn't doubt that there are ancestors somewhere, cursing his existence for it.

It takes him a while to tug the boot back on, to get back to his feet. He doesn't want to. He's still so tired, so delirious, and now is stomach is cramping from the amount of water he's taken down, the pills probably combating with his weakened systems.

The pain isn't any better, either.

"Don't just sit here," he urges, trying to encourage himself to do something. Anything. "Get up and move."

He does, painfully slow, wincing at how loud his own words echo off the walls. Some of the walls are half-caved in and he has to clamber over them, all but dragging himself over the largest mounds of stone and dirt to the other side, struggling to regain his footing once he's there. It's hard. It's also keeping him focused. If he doesn't remain focused he's certain to think about other things, like what happened to the others, what he's supposed to do now.

He takes a huge breath and his whole chest tightens, shakes. He puts a hand over his own neck and his pulse feels as if it's about ready to tear through his skin.

That would be one way to get him to stop thinking about it.

 _Just keep going_ , he tells himself. That's all that matters.

He almost turns the radio on, a mere minute or two before he hears voices. They could be close-by or hundreds of feet for how loud the sound echoes, at least a pair of them, high and low. Perhaps more. He runs into the nearest wooden post, half fallen into the tunnel, and holds onto it a moment, trying to figure out what to do. There's a gap beyond where it's fallen out, something that looks like it leads down. He could head back to the junction, if he could beat them.

But who knows if the voices are behind him or in front of him? He thinks front, but can he really trust himself right now?

He pulls himself around the beam and practically into the wall of the tunnel, stowed away between more layers of rock and a few more pillars that must be keeping the tunnel standing. There's a sharp, downwards slope, the beam of the flashlight only penetrating the first few feet before he can see nothing else.

The voices are growing louder, steadily. He flicks the flashlight off and takes a step forward.

And promptly falls, as the earth gives way underneath him.

Not the whole tunnel, he realizes, with an odd sense of gratitude that only lasts for a second before he hits the ground, suddenly sliding down with no way to stop. He throws his hands out, his feet even though one screams with pain, and on and on he rolls in the pitch black, deeper into the mines. Or perhaps just the bottom of the pit. Now _that_ would be an interesting place to die.

There's no bottom. He tumbles head over heels and sees a point of light, underneath him, before he falls out of it.

He hits the ground with a thud. There's light around him, now, orange and garish. There are torches on the wall, and lanterns. Something sharp is digging into his back and his hips - pieces of rail, he realizes, still embedded into the ground.

Up above him is the hole, jutting out from the junction between ceiling and wall.

This mine-shaft is properly formed. Some of the walls have clearly been fixed, repaired so there's more room to walk. It stretches on in either direction as far as he can see, but so does the light.

Yeah, they definitely live down here.

His whole body is aching something fierce, now, worse than before. His temples throb when he sits up, along with his ankle. He wiggles everything a few times, as he seems to be doing so often now, to test that everything's working.

Besides the general soreness and the numerous cuts and scrapes he's surely going to discover lately, he appears mostly intact.

For now, anyway.

He's not sure how long it's going to last, and if he's being honest, he doesn't want to.

* * *

 **Soran Faerber, 18  
Applicant #8**

* * *

Shocking as it sounds, Icarus makes noise even in his sleep.

Not like, normal human level sounds. Soft breathing, a snore here and there, a wiggling turnabout as you struggle to get comfortable in the land of the unconscious. It's little twitches instead, things that sound like half-formed words, murmurs that take him from almost asleep to wide awake in two seconds flat.

It was hard to ignore in the car, with Icarus half-ass cuddling him to death. He thought in here, separated at least a bit, that it would be easier.

Not really, though. They're still in the same room even though they don't have to be, and he can still hear him clear as day.

It seems worse tonight. He's twitching more than he has before, eyes moving rapidly behind his closed eyelids. One hell of a dream or one hell of a nightmare, Soran isn't so sure anymore. He's watching him mostly out of boredom, because sleep isn't coming easy on the hard concrete floors like he thought it would. It's darker than the car, makes more odd, creaky little noises. He can't rest when he's too busy wondering what they are.

He's not typically a very paranoid person, but he learned firsthand that maybe it would be smart, considering how Icarus snuck up on them.

In hindsight, it's kind of funny. It's also kind of horrifying, but he has no right to call anything that anymore.

Eventually he gets up and does a circle of the building, peers out all of the windows and doors, checks that the car is still there even though there's no reason it wouldn't be. He goes slowly, careful to avoid making much noise even as his feet crunch through the broken glass strewed everywhere. The earlier rain is still making the air slightly cooler, a breeze that for once doesn't feel so stifling.

If only there was something useful in here besides the gas that they found. He's peeled open all of the cupboards, nearly stuck in their frame. It really does look like the outline of an old diner but there's certainly nothing in here to fit that description besides the counter and the appliances in the back. There's a walk-in fridge in the back that reeks of rot and decay, but nothing useful. All of the perishables, if they ever existed, are gone. There are no knives, no utensils.

He knows being alive is being cut a break in the middle of all of this, but he'd like another one.

There's more quick, crunching footsteps behind him and he whirls around, but it's only Icarus, leaning through the door leading into the front of the building, eyes a little wide.

"What?" he asks.

"I heard footsteps, and you were gone, so..."

"So?" he continues. "Did you think I disappeared and that it was someone else?"

He rubs a hand over his forehead, looking sheepish. Not a word he thought he'd ever come to apply to Icarus. He just looks tired, most of all, which is ridiculous considering how much he's slept in the middle of all of this.

"Nevermind," he mutters, disappearing into the back room once again. Soran waits a minute before following, finding Icarus perched in the lone chair in the center of the room, tapping away at the tabletop's edge. He perches on one of the empty counters, bringing his legs up to cross them, leaning against the back wall.

It's still no more comfortable than the floor.

Unlike the floor, though, the silence is _almost_ comfortable. Not the right word, but he's not sure what else to use. It's not quite silent, after all, due to Icarus' incessant tapping, but it's filling the void.

"I have trouble sleeping," Icarus says, at long last.

"Really?" he says flatly. "Considering you seem to be sleeping every other minute, that comes as a surprise."

He actually manages a little, awkward laugh, rubbing his hands over his face again. "I'm tired a lot. Like, all the time."

"Join the club."

He's just never been a good sleeper, a by-product of growing up in close quarters with other people with increasingly odd schedules and wake-up times. It's been ingrained in him for as long as he can remember.

Icarus has no such excuse.

"Why?" he asks, his curiosity finally getting the best of him. Icarus is staring at the table now, fingers going still. He stares until he can't be bothered any longer, closing his eyes. Maybe he could just sleep up here, like some odd little bird up in it's perch. He has nothing better to do.

"I haven't slept well since she died," Icarus says, almost thoughtfully.

He opens his eyes. "Who?"

"Estella."

He blinks a few times before the words fully settle in. "You said you _had_ a girlfriend."

"I did," he confirms. "Is that not what you were imagining?"

"I'm pretty sure that's not what _anyone_ would jump to, no. That's sort of a fucked up conclusion to come to."

Icarus snorts. "Well, that's my life. One big fucked up conclusion."

"How long?"

"Six months ago... almost seven now, I guess. It feels like a lot longer. She was sick for a while, and I think I always knew, deep down. I wasn't even there when she died - she sent me down to the cafeteria to get her something that the nurses wouldn't let her have. I guess she knew, too, because I got back and everyone was out in the hallway crying. I just went home and... sat there, honestly. Stared at the wall for a long time. I didn't know what else to do."

"I don't even remember my mom's funeral," he admits. "I'm not even sure they had one. They showed me all these papers and told me they'd give me the urn when it was finished, but I never got it."

Icarus sighs. "I hate this."

He hums in agreement. It's weird, to have had something and not remember it in the slightest. He doesn't really remember what her face looked like, the details of it. He doesn't even have a picture, let alone the urn.

Icarus folds his arms over the table and lays his head on them. The whole thing wobbles an alarming amount at the sudden pressure, but he doesn't move.

"I think I'm an awful person," he says eventually.

"What clued you into that?" he asks, and Icarus' lips quirk up.

They really shouldn't be joking about this.

"Y'know, murder aside, I just feel awful. All the time. I can't really remember the sound of her voice - her real voice, not how she sounded those last few months in the hospital. I went and saw her nearly every day and all I could think was _I miss how it was before._ Like she didn't, you know? She probably missed it more than I did. She tried to shove me away, too, and a weird part of me was happy she was. I feel like it made it easier. Everything in me is just all sorts of fucked up, now, especially my emotions. I _know_ I loved her, but it feels like that was so long ago."

"You can't hold onto things forever," he says. "They'll just kill you, eventually."

"Clearly they are killing me," Icarus says, muffled into his arms. "She filled out the application to send me here behind me back."

He can't help it - he laughs, and it feels like one of the few genuine things that's come out of his mouth in a long time.

"What?" Icarus asks.

"Guess you have her to blame for all of this, then," he says, gesturing around to their surroundings, himself, all of it. He's here because of a name he doesn't have and Icarus is here because of a girl he no longer has. That's kind of ironic, when you think about it. Fate has an odd way of taking things away from you and then giving you new ones.

Because he considers this a _thing_. It's sort of terrifying, and he doesn't often feel that way. In fact, he can't remember the last time he was.

Icarus hasn't realized it yet, but it makes more sense, now. It's hard to realize things when you're feelings are jumbled into a mess that you haven't yet figured out how to untangle.

Soran got everything in him under check a long time ago, but things are changing, now.

"Do you have nightmares?" Soran asks, before the conversation runs out of energy.

Icarus shakes his head, much as he can with his head on the table. "Not nightmares. Memories. And none of them are right."

That's the problem with feelings; they so often distort pieces of you that were so clear, such a short time ago.

And often times they know things before you do.

* * *

 **Sabre Hennedige, 15  
Applicant #6**

* * *

He finds footprints, nearly dried over, now, in the once-wet dirt.

He stands over them for an inappropriate amount of time, looking in the direction they came from and then in the direction they go. His brain has been playing tricks on him as of late - he even thought the rain was his imagination, at first, until he had been soaked in it.

The footprints definitely aren't a figment of his imagination, because no matter how long he stares at them they don't disappear like he would expect them to.

He turns to head in the direction they took, feeling all the while more stupid for it

He's aware of what he's doing, no doubt about it. Footprints out in the middle of nowhere when anyone you stumble upon could be looking to kill you isn't the brightest idea - probably one of the worst ones he's ever had, really, up there with letting go of Faye when he thought it was fine and dandy to do so.

In another world he'd just be one of those wanderers, the people who refused to put roots down in the earth. That's almost what he feels like, if he ignores everything else going on.

The footsteps grow more erratic as more time passes, zig-zagging this way and that like whoever made them was indecisive in their path, trying to decide which way was best. He follows every diagonal out and back to the main line of them even when he knows the pattern is bound to continue.

Finally they end, but not really. The footprints at this point become too jumbled to tell _which_ direction this person went, branching off in every possible direction away and then overlapping upon their return. With some work he could figure it out, as one path must lead further out than the others. It would be hard work pushing the bike down and back along fake paths, but maybe he could just leave it here in the middle. It would be something to do, as the day turns to night. Something to keep him occupied.

"Hey!"

He jumps, as much as he loathes to admit. A person has appeared over the rise to his left, waving their arm. The action of someone young, someone scared, possibly.

Upon closer inspection, as they take several nervous paces to him, it's definitely someone he recognizes. Shared a room with, in fact, although he never spoke a word to him.

Jay, he knows, who looks nothing like he did before. Ruffled and terrified and covered in filth from the rain.

Sabre can't help but wonder if he looks the same.

Worse, certainly.

"Hey," Jay repeats, voice hitching. "Hey, uh— you're... _fuck_ , uh, you're—"

"Sabre," he says quietly. "We shared a room."

"Right," he says, tripping over his own words. "I knew that, totally knew that, sorry, just forgot, I—"

Jay didn't know that. That's what Sabre himself knows. Not many people ever took the time to learn his name, and they still don't know. People only learn the names of others they think are worth knowing.

He's not one of those people. He's trying.

"Are you alone?" Jay asks, looking around wildly as if waiting for someone to appear out of thin air. Sabre nods.

"Yes. Where are the people you were with. Noelani and the others?"

Jay's eyes widen, eyes darting around again. He's nervous. Beyond nervous, Sabre would say, a feeling he knows all too well, only he's good at hiding it. Jay on the other hand looks positively petrified in the growing darkness, jumping at every twitch that Sabre makes.

"Noelani and Topher went looking for supplies, they never came back. And I don't— I don't know what happened to Tarquin, I went back to look for him and he was just _gone a_ nd there was all this blood..."

"Went back?" he repeats, a murmur. "Did you leave him?"

Jay nearly bolts - he can see it in his eyes. Something keeps him standing in front of Sabre, some unknown force.

"I was scared, okay?" he admits. "I didn't know what to do. I left, and then I realized the next morning that I was fucking _stupid_ and that I couldn't be on my own but I went back and he was gone. They're all gone."

He nods, slowly, letting that information absorb into his brain. Gone. Not necessarily dead, but gone.

Gone is a scarier word than he realized.

It's odd, the pair of them. Jay seemed so confident back at the Institute even if he slowed in some moments, whereas Sabre was the complete opposite. He hardly spoke to anyone, kept his head down, woke up every morning and planned his day down to every minuscule detail. Jay did none of that, but look at them now. It's like they've switched personalities: Jay and his nervous, quiet confusion, Sabre and his still, unwavering form.

He won't lie, not to himself or to Jay. He likes the feeling of not being so unsure, so conflicted.

"I know," Jay starts. "I know we don't really know each other, obviously, but—"

"I killed someone," he interrupts, before Jay can finish his sentence. He knows what's coming.

"Who?"

"Faye. Do you remember her?"

"Yeah," he says quietly. "The youngest girl... the one that sort of got on everyone's nerves. Right?"

He nods. Jay gnaws on his already bloody lips. "Why?"

That's the part even he can't put words to just yet. There's still a hole in him that safely holds that entire event somewhere deep within him, practically under lock and key. It all seems like such a blur, like he was in a fog and came out of it only after she was dead.

"I don't know," he admits. "I just thought you should know. Before."

Jay smiles. His lips bleed even more. "Am I that transparent, dude? I don't want to be fucking alone out here. Like I said, I'm stupid, alright. I made a shitty decision and I can't fix it."

"I'm not the best company," he informs him.

"You seem like great company to me." Jay takes a step forward, closer to the bike, and Sabre doesn't feel the need to move an inch. "And you seem to be doing well - you've got the bike, and a backpack, and supplies, right? That's pretty good if you ask me."

He stares at him. Even terrified down to his core Jay still has a hell of a lot of nerve. It's enviable.

He slowly reaches into the bag, one of the side pockets, and pulls out one of the water bottles. Full again, after the rain. It doesn't taste quite the same, but they can't be picky about that out here, not even. Jay's eyes widen when he offers it out to him, so much so that Sabre feels like he's about to cry. He's not sure what to do when someone cries, he never has.

"Seriously?" Jay asks. His hand is hesitating by his side.

"That's what allies do, right?"

He's making steps. He's been trying so hard for that for so long.

Jay takes the bottle with a shaking hand, holding it between both of them and staring down into it for a long moment before he lifts it to his lips and takes a huge gulp. Sabre feels like he should be angry, at this practical stranger for taking his water, for using such a precious thing to him.

It doesn't feel like a waste, though.

It just feels like another step.

* * *

 **Arwen Paoul, 18  
Applicant #1**

* * *

"We should have buried him," Jahaira whispers.

It's the only thing she's said in hours. The only thing at all since they got back in the car and drove a few miles, north or south or whatever the fuck direction it is, until they could no longer see the body.

"Why?"

"Because he doesn't deserve to just sit out here. And that's what he's going to do. I doubt the Sentinels are off collecting the bodies."

"You should have considered that before you killed him."

Jahaira looks up, through the hair that's fallen into her eyes. "You killed him."

"We both killed him, because you caved his fucking head in first," she insists. "You think he'd enjoy rotting out here in the sun while in a vegetative state? 'Cause I know I wouldn't. I'd hope someone would do the same to me, if that happened."

"That doesn't mean we shouldn't bury him."

"Be my guest, then," she offers, gesturing to the door. "I'll be here when you're done."

"You won't help me?"

"Actions have consequences," she tells her. "Your action, your consequence. I did you a favor."

Jahaira stares at her lap, her shoes. Anything that's safer than looking Arwen in the eye, certainly. She keeps her eyes resolutely forward, rolling a full water bottle between her hands. To her left, the door pops open. There's the sound of Jahaira sliding the bloody shovel out of the backseat, before the door slams shut.

Oh. She didn't really think she was serious.

She turns to go watch her go, her figure growing smaller and smaller, before the ache in her neck forces her to sit properly again. She still finds herself glancing up in the rearview mirror, watching until she can see Jahaira no longer.

It's odd, suddenly being alone. Jahaira isn't far away, she could be with her again in mere minutes, but the feeling of being alone out here is something else. They started all of this with six of them, with a group that seemed like it could do so much, and look at them now. Who knows if Jupiter and Gideon are still alive somewhere out there. Who knows what Emmi and Myra's bodies have been left to.

They should have at least went and looked for Emmi. They should have, to fix some of it.

Sleeping is difficult when she's alone. Even though she doesn't fully trust Jahaira something in her sleeps easier with her around, the knowledge that there's a human being who is at least partially on her side. She dozes fitfully for several long hours, in and out of it. At some point she stops looking back for Jahaira to return, some corner of her brain convinced that she never will. That's just what happens out here. People disappear. People don't come back.

There's another corner of her brain that accepts the sleeplessness, though, and turns the car around.

It takes her even less time than she thought to return to the original spot. Jahaira is hunched over a very, very shallow grave. The body is covered in a fine layer of dirt, but still visible. She looks up in alarm at the car's approach, face streaked with dirt and mud, and winces when she rises to her full height, like everything hurts.

It probably does.

She's aching, too, from sitting still for so long, but it's nothing in comparison to what Jahaira must be feeling. She gets out of the car and strides forward, ignoring Jahaira's flinch when she pulls the shovel from her grip.

"Get back in the car."

"What?"

"You heard me. Get back in the car. I'll do the rest."

Jahaira hands are raw, blistered, her eyes wet with a faint sheen. She looks up at Arwen uncertainly before nodding, avoiding her eyes.

She's an awful creature, isn't she? The worst kind.

Jahaira returns to the car but Arwen can feel her watchful gaze through the window as she moves for the towering mound of dirt left by the side of the grave and begins to shovel it back in. Even the handle, she suspects, is slick with a little bit of blood from Jahaira's hands, but in the dark she has no inclination to check, nor any way to really tell.

There's a lot of things covered in blood, now, her conscious most of all. It doesn't really matter.

His body looks even smaller than it did in the first place, lying limp in the bottom of the hole Jahaira has created. She continues to scoop in the dirt as quickly as she can, until his face his covered, and then his shoulders.

It's easier to do without him watching.

It's hard work, but relatively quick. Jahaira did all the difficult bits while she was off refusing to help for something she participated in. She's still certain that she did Jahaira a favor, but she did it all the same. She's at fault here too, even if it was something someone else created.

The ground is uneven when she finally finishes, clearly disturbed by some force, but it's as good as it's going to get. The body is safely hidden in the earth, safer than either of them are.

Jahaira is staring at her lap again just like earlier when Arwen returns to the front seat, tossing the shovel in the back where it belongs.

"Thank you," she murmurs, and Arwen nods.

It's no the type of action she should be thanked for surely, but this is what they have left for them now that everything's fallen apart. The act of burying a body warrants a _thank-you_ after they put the body there in the first place.

Like she said, they're all awful now.

There's no changing that.

* * *

Happy July! Which is, you know, exactly the same as every other month for me personally but I hope some of you are enjoying it! If you would feel so inclined to let me know even your brief thoughts on this chapter please do - we're past the halfway point now in terms of days, even if not for people. And who knows, maybe your thoughts could do something. You never know.

Until next time.


	28. Dead End

XXV: Day Six, Early Morning.

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17**  
 **Applicant #10**

* * *

For how much sleep he's supposedly getting, he doesn't feel very rested.

It's no doubt the stress and the paranoia and the anxiety piled on top of his shoulders, along with the plethora of... other things that he's not sure how to wrap his head around. All of that combined leads to him waking up in a decently terrible mood, his head throbbing and every part of his body inexplicably sore from sleeping on the cold concrete ground.

Soran is half-awake, he's sure, constantly tossing and turning but not doing much real sleeping. He starts drumming his fingers against the metal table leg to his right, unable to stop himself from thinking back to last night's conversation. He hasn't told _anyone_ the details of Estella, not even his parents who seemed to care about her death for all of five minutes until they told him to come home.

And to top it all of Soran is a virtual stranger, someone who can't possibly understand him.

But he does, somehow? It doesn't make a lick of sense.

"You're so twitchy," Soran says lowly a moment later, voice still riddled with sleep. Icarus sighs, bumping his fingers harder against the table leg.

"Sorry to bug you, your royal highness."

He's really not pissed at Soran, not quite, just endlessly confused. His brain is feeling all sorts of things, now, and when that happens everything that comes out is manifested in the ugliest of ways.

He doesn't often admit that he's an ugly person, either.

"I'm sure we both know who the real highness is here," Soran says, sitting up. He rubs at his eyes, a very casual movement, and for some reason it just makes Icarus angrier.

"Fuck you."

"Geez, what crawled up your ass and died in the middle of the night?" Soran asks.

"Nothing. Fuck off."

He whistles, lowly, and the noises echoes off the walls in a way that makes it feel like Icarus could go insane just from that alone. He can feel Soran watching him, examining him in a way that makes him want to dive out of the room and down the hall as quickly as he physically can. Every time people look at him like that they think they know, but they don't.

Ignoring the fact that he just thought about how Soran _did_ know. That's not the important part here.

"Stop staring at me," he insists. "I don't wanna talk like last night, just fuck off."

"I never said we _had_ to talk like last night. Do I look like a therapist to you?"

"Sometimes."

Soran snorts. "Sorry to disappoint you."

It's not disappointing, is the thing. It's nice to have some of that weight off his chest. It's nice to have someone know and to understand why he is the way he is, why he struggles so much with certain things.

Soran is still staring at him, and from the corner of his eye Icarus can see a little smirk playing at his lips. It doesn't disappear even when Icarus rolls over properly to look at him, something accusatory in his eyes. He just wants him to stop, for all of five minutes, until Icarus can sort out whatever it is that's going on in his own head. He just needs time to do that.

"What?" he snaps.

"Nothing." Soran shakes his head, still with that smirk on his face, although it fades somewhat as he turns away, as if he's trying to get rid of it.

It's unsuccessful, as far as Icarus can tell.

"No, what?" he repeats, a little louder. "If you wanna be an asshole, go ahead."

"If you're in the mood to fight, go outside and punch a wall. I'm not fighting with you."

"For once in your life, hey?" he taunts. "You seem pretty willing to do it every other time. What's the difference now?"

"That's what I'm waiting for you to figure out," Soran answers, leaning back against the countertops. He looks _satisfied_ for some odd reason, still with that almost-grin on his face. Icarus can't help it anymore - he climbs to his feet, even though his vision flashes with black spots at the speed of it all, and then kicks the table leg, sending the entire thing skidding.

"What did the table ever do to you?" Soran asks, deadpan. He nearly reaches over and kicks _him_ before he thinks better of it.

He'd never win that fight.

He does want to punch something. Instead he buries his own hands in his hair, pulling just a bit to ease the urge, digging his nails into his own skull.

"I think something's wrong with me," he says mournfully.

"Physically, or mentally?"

"Fuck you," he says again. "Mentally."

"Ditto," Soran says, and the proximity of his voice makes Icarus open his eyes, unaware of when he had closed them in the first place. Soran is standing now, too. Closer than Icarus would like.

He's not sure why it matters how close he is. He just wants to stop wondering.

He can't do that, though, not unless he shuts down completely or he dies. At this point he's not sure which option he's closest to, because at any given time of the day it feels like both are about to happen, one after the other. That would solve a lot of his problems, including the main one standing in front of him right now. He can't tell, but he thinks Soran is shuffling forward ever so carefully, almost not noticeable at all.

Icarus notices, though, because all his nerves are shot. He could notice anything now. The movements, the look in his eyes. He just wishes he could interpret what any of it meant.

"You're really stupid, you know that," Soran says. God, he's really close.

"Fuck you," he says, and Soran leans in to kiss him.

Oh, his brain says, accurately very stupid. _Oh._

Soran is kissing him.

Suddenly a lot of things make a lot of sense, and simultaneously nothing at all. Someone cuts something in his brain, a very important wire that's keeping everything running up to date and he can see the error message flashing behind his closed eyes because he's definitely closed them and is just _accepting_ of this like the idiot that he is.

 _There you_ go, his brain says, first of all. _Problem solved._

And then, secondly - _what the fuck are you doing_?

He has no idea how long it's been when he wrenches himself back, too long, clearly, because it feels like his heart is about to jump out of his chest and Soran just _kissed_ him and is still standing there, hovering in front of him, hands still slightly outstretched—

"Did that make you feel any better?" Soran asks, something awfully teasing in his voice, so Icarus punches him.

He's never punched anybody in his life.

The worst part is he actually catches him off guard, right across the side of his face. Soran isn't surprised by anything, not really, but he didn't see it coming. He doesn't knock him to the ground, not even close, just makes him stumble a bit, clutching a hand to the side of his face.

Icarus' knuckles are throbbing like his head is.

Soran starts laughing, still looking at the ground. "Thanks for the confirmation."

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" he asks, voice nearly a shout. "Is there something wrong with your head, too, because I think—"

"Just wanted to test out a theory," Soran breathes, righting himself. His cheek is red, but not obviously so. "I think it worked."

"So I'm an experiment, is that it? Are you getting some sort of sick fucking enjoyment out of all of this?"

"Honestly, yeah," Soran answers. "Sorry for jumping you, but I didn't think asking would've worked out any better. I had to see if there was any sort of reciprocation _some way_ and clearly asking you wasn't going to go anywhere."

He goes still. "Reciprocation."

"Maybe," Soran says. "Possibly. Stranger things have happened."

"Have they?" he asks, voice strained. "I think you've fucked with me enough, don't you?"

"I'm not fucking with you."

He practically chokes on all of the angry, confused things about to come up out of his throat, and when he's finally able to breathe again he has nothing left to form. No angry reply, no witty retort. Absolutely nothing, except for a heart that just won't fucking _stop_ and this stupid, infuriating look on Soran's face that just keeps saying _I was right, I was right, I was right_.

Soran looks down at his twitching fingers. "Try it again. I dare you."

He swallows and heads for the back door, instead, slamming it open against the outside wall. It's still dark, just verging on dawn, but he doesn't care. He could head for the nearest wall just like Soran suggested, punch it until his knuckles stream blood and until he no longer hates everything about this, but he just keeps on walking. On and on through the dirt, past the car, towards the gently rolling hills in the distance.

Soran is probably watching him go. He has no idea when he plans on stopping.

He has no idea if he's coming back at all.

Soran has to be fucking with him. If he cared he'd come after him, make him stop. If he cared he'd do something.

But he just did, didn't he?

All of the things warring in his brain, the terror, the confusion, the anxiety, all of that has led to this. To Soran kissing him when he didn't even have the frame of mind to understand. Soran kissed him and he didn't immediately pull away, never thought _I don't want this_.

He didn't think that. Why didn't he think that?

"God, why me," he moans, and nearly trips over a rock. "Why _me_?"

No one answers. No one's listening, and Soran's too far away to hear him, now.

He's on his own just like he's been at home for the past six months, the same home that Soran's also existed in since he was seven years old. He's always been there. Icarus just didn't know it.

And he's been there since the day Icarus met him, too. He wormed in somewhere, and, and—

He thinks he might throw up.

He really hopes Estella can see him now. He wants her to know what she did, even if it means her having heard everything he said last night. It's the truth she always deserved back when she was alive. She always laughed at him, though, at his misfortunes and his dramatics, never blinking an eye. They're the same in that respect, her and Soran. They both live to torment him, in an oddly endearing way.

God, now he's thinking of it as endearing. How much worse could it get?

Estella is probably off doing the same thing she always did, singing _I told you it would be good for you!_ up in the sky to anyone that can hear her, but certainly not him.

He doesn't want to hear her, hear those words aloud. He doesn't want to confront the reality that they're true.

He can't do that. Not yet.

All he can do now is keep walking. He'll have to make a decision, eventually. Everyone always does.

But right now he's just going to walk.

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17  
Applicant #13**

* * *

She doesn't make it back to her original spot.

In fact, she's not even sure where it is.

She can't walk that far, she's certain of it. In fact she can't really walk well at all, constantly lurching to one side, tripping and almost falling. If she falls she's not going to get up.

She does make it to the long, winding canyon that she's sure her little hideout was in the first place, sliding down layers of rock and scree to the very bottom, as far as she can go while holding her stomach together, the backpack and everything she stole weighing heavier on her than it would normally.

She's not going to die, though... she can't. Not after all of this.

The Sentinels are probably after her, now. They have to know what happened, what she did. They'd be fools not to.

She killed one of their own.

It's that thought alone that keeps her walking even when she wants to collapse and succumb to the spots around the edge of her vision. When she finally does stop she's so deep in the canyon that she's certain it will at least take them a while to get to her. Maybe by then she'll be better, patched up. Have a fighting chance, at least, when they finally try to end her life.

It's a long shot, but it's the only one she has.

She doesn't so much stop as she collapses, finally, sheltering under an outcrop and flopping across the ground, all energy spent. Her stomach and side aren't bleeding but she's soaked in it anyway, her shirt stuck to the torn edges of her skin and dried there.

This isn't going to be pleasant.

There's plenty of things in the backpack - water, food, a sleeping bad and flashlight, more matches and a little tin of kerosene.

She looks around at the rock, and thinks about walking back out to get things for a fire.

Not happening.

Alright, so another course of action then. She pulls out the first aid kit nestled in the bottom of the bag, larger than the one she had originally. She can't help but wonder if anyone in her previous alliance has found use for it yet. She nearly cries when she opens it, at the layers of bandages and gauze and cleansing pads, the full roll of tape. There's a little pair of scissors and tweezers, antiseptic cream.

No gloves, that would probably help. No needle and thread, either.

There is a safety pin, though.

God, this is going to be terrible.

She pulls out all of the clothes she took off of the Sentinels body, too. Leaning back against the wall she takes the discarded jacket and the little pair of scissors, beginning to change it into something usable. That can go across her arm and hold it to her chest once she gets her shirt off.

That's going to be the difficult part.

It takes her several minutes to work up the nerve once she's finished with the jacket. She can put the other shirt on when she's done, and then her own jacket, but it's the pain she's concerned with. There's nothing to stop that in the first aid kid. She begins snipping away at the bottom of her shirt, inch by inch. She pulls the stiff material taut almost over the wound but still feels the cool metal slide against it, biting back a scream.

There are tears welling in her eyes by the time she finishes cutting through it, and there's still her side to deal with. It's peeled away some with the cutting, but it's still stuck to what she's certain is the most painful part.

Just rip the bandaid off - that's what they always say.

She does, though, and isn't sure what comes out of her mouth, a sob or a scream or a combination of the two before she muffles the sound against her forearm.

It's bleeding again, no surprise there. Of course it is.

She's cold now, without her shirt on, and that seems ridiculous. She's in the middle of the desert and she's _cold._

That seems like the least of her problems.

The wound in her side is smaller, at least, but the skin has torn outward in a little starburst. She could probably sew that one shut with a little bit of work. The hole in her stomach is the real problem, the definitively larger one. If she dared to look, and she won't, she could probably see all the way through to the other side. She presses a bit of gauze to her side to stem some of the sluggish bleeding when she peers _into_ the wound, a mass of muscle and congealed blood.

She's still alive, so it couldn't have hit anything too important, except whatever's made her bleed so much. That's a given.

She has to drop the pressure on her side to retrieve one of the safety pins and pop it open. She stretches it open as wide as she can and pins the edge of it under her sandal, retrieving one of the knives to hack away at the middle portion of it, until the pin itself is separated from the rest of it, springing free from the clasp. She has a needle, now, albeit a jagged one that's going to leave a bigger hole in her than she'd like, and she already has an idea for the thread.

She grabs the pair of pants and the scissors, wedging the blades underneath one of the seams until she's able to pull the thread free. After that it's just more pulling. Again she pins the pants underneath her foot as she begins tugging at the loose thread, watching as it unravels right before her very eyes.

Who knows if it's enough, but she can always cut more off during if she needs it.

With shaking hands, and half a dozen failures before she completes the knot, she ties the thread to the haggard end of the safety pin, pulling on it a few times for good measure.

There are really no words for how terrible this is going to be.

She folds a layer of gauze over the hole in her stomach and tapes over it for the time being. Even if it's not doing much it feels better to not look, at least. She will later, when she has time to deal with it. Really, it's when she gets an idea. She's not sure if she could stitch it up the way she thinks she can do to her side.

She eyes the package of safety pins in the kit, a dozen of them, at least. She could probably close it with that.

Not a very encouraging thought.

This would be the time when two hands would really be useful, when she could hold her skin together with one, ready with gauze to stop and bloodflow, and stitch with the other.

But no, she has one. She's always had one, and she's learned how to deal with it.

It's not something that's going to kill her.

She presses the tip of the needle against her skin and inhales. It only hurts more when she does that, so she needs to stop.

She can't make things worse than they already are; like she said, it's awful enough without her contributing to the situation in other unnecessary ways.

Someone is probably on her way to kill her, that she knows.

But she's determined. She really, really doesn't want to die.

Hopefully they're in for a surprise when they do find her.

* * *

 **Tarquin Vierra, 16  
Applicant #4**

* * *

Someone's following him.

He has no real way to tell that, of course, not unless he stops for confirmation, waiting in dread for someone to finally find him in the darkness of the mines.

But he's hearing things, little noises that could be disguised as the tunnels themselves, but it's too regular. Even someone used to this environment would have trouble navigating in the dark, using only the light from _his_ flashlight to follow along.

He should have turned it off long ago, but he doesn't think he has any chance of getting away if someone really is after them. Dark or not, they'll always know this place better than him.

At this point he's just looking for an exit, for any way out lest he have to dig up through the earth with his bare hands.

There's so many signs of life - the occasional lantern, footprints in the rubble, scraps of old clothing and boxes.

And a dead end, just in front of him.

Until the last second he expects it to open up into another section of tunnel, even it's more difficult to traverse with his injured ankle. He puts a hand against the wall of dirt and rock, cool underneath his palm.

It's so different down here.

There was a branch leading away from the main tunnel a ways back, but it's too late for that now, if someone's after him. They'll intercept him before he gets there.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Or right now, evidently.

His hand finds the knife in his belt, and there's a little, low chuckle behind him. They're so close, closer than he had anticipated. He doesn't dare turn around.

"I asked you a question."

He swallows, throat like sandpaper. If they don't already know who he is, his voice will give it away. He definitely isn't the man he killed, no matter how much he may look like him from a distance.

"It's alright," they add. "No need for the knife."

He peers over his shoulder, and holds back his surprise, once again, at how normal they look. She isn't wearing a mask, and in the dim light from the flashlight's beam she looks quite pale, freckled all over. No way she ever leaves these tunnels, then. She'd go up in flames the second she did.

She's got a bow and arrow too, another primitive, hand-made looking one. He wraps his fingers around the hilt of the knife.

"You're an outsider, correct?" she asks, voice filled with curiosity. "We've seen them, before. They guard the borders. But never this close."

"An outsider," he says weakly, and she blinks a few times at him, almost owlishly. It's an oddly terrifying look on her face, a picture of such innocence from someone who he's certain could kill him. If what the other man tried was any indication, she's probably worse.

"An outsider," she repeats. "You come from outside the borders, and suddenly there are lots of you here. Iras injured one of you, quite a few days ago. I'd assume they're dead by now... nevermind that. Did you know the girl?"

"Who?" he asks. "What girl?"

"The one that was outside. She had a littler one with her. Her hair was so strange, too..."

"Noelani?" he chokes. "Where is she?"

"Noelani," she hums, rolling the name over her tongue. "Down the tunnel that we passed not long ago, hanging in the dark room. I believe that's where Caliban took her."

It's already cool down here, a product of the never-ending darkness, but an icy chill goes all the way down his spine and back up.

"She's... she's dead," he croaks, the question falling off the end of a tongue. It's not a question at all.

"Dead is typically a prerequisite for consumption, yes," she answers. "I take it you outsiders don't often partake?"

He must balk. He knows he goes paler than even she is, all the blood draining from his face at the mere _implication_ , coupled with the fact that Noelani is dead, and Topher is nowhere to be found, unmentioned.

And Jay... what happened to Jay?

The girl laughs, and he nearly stumbles. "That was a joke. I was taught that you people liked jokes."

"Was it?" he asks weakly.

"Almost," she says thoughtfully. "Hunting is hard in the summer. We'll see in a few days; I'm sure Caliban will advocate in that direction the hungrier we get. Now, can I ask you a question?"

He bites down on his own tongue to quell the panic, adamantly refusing to answer. She's drifted a little closer, but he has nowhere to go before his back will be against the dead end.

And then God only knows what she'll do to him. Eat him, probably.

"I'd like to know where Yorick's body went. What you did with it," she adds. "You see, if it comes to that, I'd rather eat him than your green little friend. At least I would know then what I'm consuming."

He can't lie. He's a bad liar anyway, and here he is with the guy's mask and clothing, his weapons. She's already got him figured out down to every minute detail, and that terror has a tight grip on his heart, clawing at it until it feels like it's restricted too much for him to breathe properly.

"Strange how you killed Yorick yet here you are, scared as a little mouse," she observes. "If the others find you, they'll kill you."

"Why aren't you?" he asks shakily.

"I happen to like mice," she says simply. "They're always somewhere, surviving. Tough little bastards. They happen to make good bait, too."

"Bait for what?"

She shrugs. "I haven't yet decided. But our ancestors and us have been out here for hundreds of years, since they left us to rot. Perhaps if I want back in I'll bring you with me in exchange. Does that seem fair for you?"

She could get him out. She could give him back to whoever is patrolling the borders, certainly someone in close ties with the government.

But that would mean helping her, and they killed Noelani. Someone else, too, that he's been made aware of.

There are monsters living down here.

"Will you come after me, if I get out?"

"I haven't decided yet," she says again. She leans forward so abruptly that he can't backpedal fast enough and she tugs the flashlight out of his hand, finger on the button. The tunnel plunges into darkness and he feels back for the wall, heart slamming in his chest.

"Run along now, little mouse," she says. "I won't treat you so kindly the next time I see you."

It's disorienting, her voice so close in the dark. He hugs the wall, feels her shoulder brush his as she stumbles away past her, his limp worse than before.

"There are medical supplies in the dark room, too!" she calls after him, and he flinches. "If you're so inclined."

That's where Noelani is, her body...

He's not so inclined.

Not in a million years.

* * *

 **Percius Marigold, 17  
Applicant #2**

* * *

He lets Verity run off.

He swallows the _cut it out, would you?_ because he's really not sure what he's talking about - her incessant chattering that's picked up once again, or how quickly she moves when her curiosity overtakes everything.

The low building, upon approach, isn't as big as he initially suspected. There's no sign to indicate what it is except for the beyond-ruined parking lot that shows that it was a semi-popular spot at least some time ago. People would take the time to drive all the way out here.

He nearly chokes on the cloud of dust he walks through upon entering, both of the doors creaking so wildly he expects them to disintegrate under his hands.

Verity has disappeared, but the dust is so thick even on the floor that he can see her footprints clear as day and begins to wind after them, covering them with his own. The main lobby, as it appears, has been nothing short of eviscerated. Any remaining furniture practically _has_ disintegrated, a few remaining pieces laying at odd angles cast across the floor.

It doesn't appear to be very big. He can hear Verity rustling around in the next room, occasionally letting out a muffled curse.

"Find anything?" he asks, turning the corner. She's in the middle of a landmine of odds and ends, broken pieces of furniture and other equipment all stacked and balancing precariously in ramshackle piles.

"I think it might have been a museum?" she guesses. "There's all sorts of different things, and there's this little info panel about native minerals and rocks and stuff. I think, it's all faded and hard to read. But there's mining equipment too, see—"

He tunes her out once more the way he has the entire day, every single waking hour, really, since they left Damas behind.

She's trying to fill the void in her that was caring for him. Now that he's gone talking is her only way.

Talking used to be his way, too. Hell, talking was just his _thing_ whether it made him feel one way or another. When he was happy, when he was sad, when he was nervous...

Not anymore. Maybe it's how hungry he is. He doesn't have the energy to talk.

"Didn't find any food, did you?" he asks tiredly, toeing a wooden crate out of the way.

"Negative. I'll let you know, though!"

The level of artificial cheeriness this girl can maintain is off the chance, and it's getting exhausting.

Everything is, really.

He continues forging a path through whatever it even is that he's seeing. Verity appears to be right on the mining equipment, but besides that it's mostly just paper, lots of it. He's practically sinking into the layer of them that's formed on the floor, the wooden floors underneath practically untouched.

He trips, inevitably, and catches himself on a glass case overturned on the floor, one of the only things intact. Upon further inspection the back wall of the case is shattered, no doubt from the impact when it hit the floor, but otherwise it looks almost as untouched as the floor, covered by just as many papers.

"Oh, sweet!" Verity crows.

"Food?" he asks, not looking up from the case.

"No, but _better_ ," she insists, so he peers over his shoulder. She's hefted out a pickaxe-looking thing from the pile around her feet, rusted all the way around with one end broken clean off.

It looks too big for her, the way she's swinging it around.

"Can I have it for a second?" he asks, and Verity freezes, clutching it to her chest. For a second something almost like fear fills her eyes, an uncertainty that was there only when she woke him up, before Damas...

"I just want to break this," he explains. "And then I'll give it back."

She picks her way over, eyes widening incrementally as she catches sight of what's in it. She ignores his outstretched hands waiting for the pickaxe and slams it into the glass herself, something like determination in her small frame.

Of course she's not going to give it to him.

The case shatters, something made for display, clearly. He waits for Verity to leap on it, to shove him out of the way, but she takes a pace back.

Waiting.

He reaches in, glass pricking at his fingertips no matter how careful he is, and pulls out what appears to be a tomahawk with hands that are shaking, but only slightly. He turns it over in his hands, ignoring the little cuts on the pads of his fingers. Compared to Verity's pickaxe this thing looks practically pristine, hidden away from the outside air for so long. Just by touching the edge of it he knows the blade could kill someone in half a second, the cord-wrapped handle comfortable nestled in his palm.

"And I thought my find was cool," Verity breathes, but something in her voice is off. "That's way better, I'm not going to lie."

She's scared. Of him. Of the prospect of weapons and fighting. He has no doubt that she would, the little firecracker that she's capable of being, but until now it was easier to ignore. They had Damas to worry about back then, when they didn't even know what got to him or the amount of damage they really did.

He's reminded of how quickly some of the younger kids would die in the Games.

Statistically speaking, Verity probably would have been dead by now, and now he's got the way to do just that. He's thinking only what she did, minutes before him. She was quicker on the uptake.

Clearly the starvation is doing something to his head as well.

Verity lets out a breath, clearly pasting another cheery smile on her face. "Okay! Want to look around the rest of the place, then? Maybe we could find some food."

He nods, slowly, not missing how many steps she takes back in order to allow him room to get back up once again. She's out of the room before he even moves from his spot, not even bothering to search through the rest of it in her haste to get away.

From him. To get away from _him._ There's no other way to explain it.

He almost calls after her, but refrains. That'll just scare her more. Hell, it scares him more.

Damas' death opened the floodgates, is what both of them failed to realize. Before now it just felt like a mission purely of survival, one distant to all of the others.

Now it feels more centered on the killing, on the death...

So many of them are gone already, in six short days.

He's not sure how much time either of them have left now.

* * *

 **Jupiter Valentine, 18**  
 **Applicant #9**

* * *

" _Look_!" they cry. " _Trees_!"

"Yay," Mal deadpans, so they pinch him in the shoulder. He's carrying them, yet again, as he seems to be taking the job of personal chauffeur a tad too seriously.

"Be excited."

"I live in _Seven_ ," he responds. "I'm more excited about the big ass building."

"It looks like a castle," they decide, wiggling around a bit until Mal gets the message and deposits them back in the dirt. Now that they're descending the practical mountain they just climbed it's a bit easier to manage on their own, especially with something so promising just ahead.

"It's a castle, then," Mal says. "You're right, though, with the towers it does sort of look like one."

It's pretty, is what it is. Worn from years of abandonment, but still quite easy on the eyes compared to... say, everything else. They can imagine it as a vacation spot, almost, a place where tourists passing through would stop for a few hours to walk around. There's no visible road that they can see, but the two of them made it here, didn't they?

If you're determined enough you can do anything.

"Careful," Mal warns, gesturing to the large rocks that mark the bottom of the hill and the last approach to the outer wall. He grabs their elbow as they make their way across them. They still can't help but marvel at how gentle he can be after what they've seen him do. It's almost as if he forgets that when it's just the two of them, like it's the easier thing to do.

It probably is, if you ignore him carrying them around everywhere. That's really not easy at all.

Mal would never admit it, but he's exhausted. They can tell just by watching him - they could feel it in the way he was walking when they were on his back just a few minutes ago, how his footsteps dragged over the rock and every breath sounded like it was a pain to take.

They feel a little bit better not burdening him now, even better than he may just be able to settle down somewhere with a bit of shade, if nothing else.

"Are you sure you're alright?" they ask.

"Quit worrying about me."

"Yeah, _okay_ ," they scoff. "You're doing all the hard work."

"Walking isn't typically considered hard work, you know," he points out.

"When you're dehydrated, exhausted, and carrying another human being it is. I'm going to worry about you, alright? You don't get a choice."

Mal sighs as if they're being purposefully difficult, scuffing his feet in the dirt as they approach what appears to be the main entrance of the building until he nearly trips over his own two feet. They've never seen him be any sort of graceless until now.

Turns out exhaustion can do all sorts of things you never thought you'd see.

They look up at the trees overhead casting very faint, thin shadows across the ground in front of them. There's an oddly-shaped one right outside the front gate, rounded at all ends. They stretch up to touch it, the bark brittle and crumbling underneath their hand.

"Don't kill the trees you were all excited about," Mal warns, toeing at the gate. It's red paint has faded some but it still looks very stark in its obviousness, as the whole building seems to be. It seems like an oasis in the middle of nothing, almost, if it had some water somewhere. They're going to choose to be optimistic about their chances inside.

There are remains of a rusted chain between their feet and one of the gate swings in at the little push of Mal's foot, creaking wildly until it bumps against the sandstone wall of the interior. Mal gestures forward, so they take the first few steps into the courtyard, an otherwise unassuming and bare space save for the set of double doors that must lead inside at the end of the walk.

Mal sets the gate back in place, walking forward to their side. "It is pretty cool."

They nod. With the early morning light beginning to filter in over the mountains it's even prettier than normal, they suspect. Long abandoned places are usually creepy, or so they thought, but this doesn't have the same feeling.

They're almost a little claustrophobic after spending so much time out in the open, surrounded by walls on three sides, a gate at their backs. Even the mountains themselves seem to be closing in on them, enclosing them in a little crater out here in the middle of the desert.

"Alright, let's do this," Mal says, striding forward at a pace he wasn't walked at in literal days. They let out a little squeak, rushing to follow him. By the time they catch up he's pulling at the doors with both hands, brows knitted in concentration. They can hear the doors as if they're fighting back, stuck shut and rusting after so much time spent closed.

Finally the left door comes free, and the handle with it. Mal jerks back, nearly smacking them in the face in the process, holding onto one end of the broken handle.

"Well, that's one way to do it," they say slowly, reaching forward to pry the handle from his grasp. They toss it back into the courtyard over their shoulder.

The door has swung wide open, now, but there's very little light to tell what they're really looking at. It doesn't look like a very big room - those appear to be on either side of them, so this must be a hallway that connects the two.

They step forward onto plush carpet, and the softness is incomparable even against their prosthetics, after so many days of struggling to walk. It just _looks_ old, like the entire building is an antique. The ceilings are high, arched, the tiles that complete the floor almost glowing, softly, in the sun's soft rays. They struggle to see anything beyond the hallway save for a large crystal chandelier on the floor in the room to their right, little shards of glass catching the light and reflecting back at them.

"It really does look like a castle," they breathe.

"Clearly you have no idea what a castle looks like."

"And you do!"

Mal laughs. "Not really. I don't know what else I'd call it, though, so I guess that works if you think it works. If this is a castle, then I guess that mean we're royalty."

"You wanna stay here for a bit?"

"I don't see why we wouldn't. We'll have to take a look around, sweep the place out, but it would be nice to take shelter for a while, hopefully find some food or some water. I'll take anything at this point. You down?"

They find themselves nodding far too quickly to be seen as anything other than excitement, their anticipation brimming over. They've never seen any place like this before. Everything just seems so warm, in the most pleasant of ways. Not overbearing, not sickly like the hospital always seemed to be, either. Just comfortable.

"I'm excited," they announce, as if it wasn't obvious. It feels wrong, after everything, but it's the truth.

Mal cracks a smile. "Couldn't tell. Let's go."

* * *

Thank you all so much for 100 reviews, especially to those that have been shooting me one even when they've been woefully sad. Ten words or ten paragraphs, it means more than you'll ever know.

Mal and Jupiter are in a real place in Death Valley called Scotty's Castle (eat it, Mal) and it is quite pretty, honestly. Probably not so much after my creative liberties are taken, but what can you do. To be honest most of these places are at least vaguely real even after my twisting because it's the only aspect of realism that I give a shit about these days.

Everything else that happened, well... don't have answers for that! Don't expect me to, either.

Until next time.


	29. Stand For Nothing

XXVI: Day Six, Evening & Night.

* * *

 **Soran Faerber, 18  
Applicant #8**

* * *

Truth be told, he doesn't know if Icarus is coming back.

It's slightly worrying. It's really worrying that he thinks it's worrying.

It's not so much himself that he's concerned with, more along the lines of what stupid thing Icarus could get himself into while he's doing nothing but avoiding his own problems. A problem that Soran very much created.

He's not ashamed of that. It was getting kind of annoying having to deal with it when Icarus clearly had no handle on his own emotions, no way to figure out which way was up. It would be better if Soran thought he helped, really, because he may have just in fact made it worse. As of right now it's certainly appearing that way, because it's been close to twelve hours and Icarus is still gone.

He does that a lot, he's realized. Ruin things. It's sort of a problem.

He tries to sleep for most of it but keeps hearing things, distant ones that keep him from going under fully. Out in the back room, more from the front. Almost every time he starts pacing around the perimeter, looking at things that aren't the source of noise but could've been, if he was well and properly insane. More than once he thinks he sees things flickering out of the corner of his eye.

Maybe he is going insane.

He hears another noise and peels himself from the floor, the routine already growing old. Stares at the cabinets in the middle room like they're going to have changed, and enters the front room once again. He sees the silhouette from afar but almost doesn't make sense of it, thinks it's Icarus until even the last second.

They turn around.

It's very decidedly not Icarus.

"Oh, there you are," the man says. "I was starting to think the tracking was a little off."

This is one of the men standing near Carnelia's side at the front of that room, when everything went to hell in the first place. Soran doesn't remember him looking so much like the boogeyman before.

"You found me," he announces. "Congratulations."

"You know, I didn't think any kid of Quinn's would be this ballsy."

"Surprise," he says flatly, foot already inching back. He has no fucking weapon, why was he not carrying _something_ around this whole time?

Lesson learned.

"Is the other one here too?" the man asks. "Without the bracelet keeping track of him is a little dicey."

"I have about as much fucking clue about his whereabouts as you do," he spits, angry at his own stupidity and this random asshole and just the whole situation, really. He considers himself decently tall, strong enough, but this guy looks like he comes from a race of giants. That probably means his odds aren't the greatest if he's here to kill him.

Why the hell else would he be here?

Fuck it.

He dives away, towards the back room as quickly as he can manage, nearly slipping over the floor and tripping in his haste to get there. He just needs to get something, anything, no matter what it may be.

He needs to be able to defend himself.

And he gets there, that's for sure. His fingers close around the wrench first, his last real choice but the only one close enough.

A hand locks around the back of his jacket, the other one around his arm, and throws him to the ground like a doll.

He hits the concrete so hard he swears he feels some it crumble beneath him, like that's a thing that just regularly happens, and his head cracks into the ground for good measure, distorted stars flitting in and out of his vision. A foot gets planted on his chest, a heavy one, no surprise there. The man leans down over him, fuck _fuck_ his chest is going to collapse from that alone, this isn't good.

By some miracle he managed to hold onto the wrench, but now the man is grabbing a hold of his fingers. Pulling, pulling—

Two of his fingers give way and _crack_ in more than one place. He bites down on his tongue until blood fills his mouth, the wrench clattering to the floor.

That's not so good.

"Tell me where he is," he says.

"I told you, I don't fucking know," he manages, head and fingers throbbing. His whole body is throbbing, really.

"Try again."

"I don't _know_. Why the fuck do you care?"

"I was hoping for a two for one deal here, you know—"

He throws himself up, just enough to dislodge the heavy weight of the foot against his chest. He fumbles for the wrench again, fingers screaming in protest as they bump against it.

The man pulls something from his back. A sword. For fuck's sake, he really though the medieval era practices were over in this godforsaken country.

He abandons the wrench just in time to throw his arms up over his face, as the sword comes down. The blade bites into the soft inner skin of his arms, slicing open and immediately spilling blood down onto his face. Once, twice, three times. There's so much blood in his mouth it's threatening to choke him. He raises the sword again - Soran sees his opportunity, through the ribbons of his own skin peeking out of the tears in his jacket, and grabs onto the edge of the sword with his hand. It's already ruined anyway, no point to it now. He tugs at it, pulling furiously until he gains enough leverage to tear it away, throwing it clear across the room. He attempts to roll after it but doesn't get anywhere near close before he lifts him up again by the collar of his jacket like he's a damned kitten.

The sword is gone, but there's a knife in his hand.

Apparently he didn't get enough training to account for that.

Soran struggles, but there's no point. He's not getting away from him, strong as he is.

The knife plunges into his side. Everything fades inward, to that single point of pain.

He's not sure if he screams - it sounds like it, and he must, judging by the look on the bastard's face. There's so much satisfaction there he could be sick.

The man releases him and shoves him back. Soran stumbles into the wall with the knife still buried hilt deep between his ribs, a scream threatening to escape every time he inhales. It hurts. Of course it fucking hurts. Why would he think it wouldn't?

"Try again," he says. "Tell me where he is."

He stays silent, knowing that he's got two options for opening his mouth, and it's either another scream is coming out, or an entire mouthful of blood. Neither are particularly appealing options. He wraps his hands around the hilt of the knife and pulls; blood spurts from the wound as it comes free from his side, soaking into his shirt and jacket in seconds.

He lobs it back into the darkness of the second room. He'd rather bleed out than let him have it again.

This time when he approaches Soran doesn't even bother moving. What the hell would he do at this point, except prolong it? His arms are on fire, his side even worse. His legs have turned to gelatin certainly from the blood-loss, or perhaps how bad everything just hurts.

His shoulders are suddenly on the receiving end of a vice tight grip as the man slams him up against the wall and then wraps both massive hands around his throat. He struggles - futile, and then attempts to kick at him but his legs just won't fucking cooperate. Nothing will. The hands squeeze tighter, tighter. He tries to inhale and nothing happens.

He couldn't _breathe_.

It was quite a terrifying thing, to suck in a breath of air and get nothing in return. His throat burned like someone had dropped ashes down it, like the hands around it was on fire. Everything was swimming, his vision wavering like the man trying to choke the life out of him was a mirage in the desert, except he wasn't. Soran couldn't get that lucky. He was real, and Soran knew it because everything fucking _hurt_ , and he could feel everywhere he was bleeding, and how little air he had left—

He throws a hand up, scrabbling at the man's face. He claws towards his eyes, the whites of them the only glaringly obvious weakness he could see. The man grunts, hands tightening. Soran was certain his head was about to pop off like a dandelion picked by a child, all the way across the room. Instead he rears back, jerking his face away from Soran's reaching hands, and pulled the both of them from the wall. He only gets one feeble, useless breath in before the man pulls him away and then slams him up against the wall again, harder than the first time. So hard that he feels his head cave the weakened plastered in, black bursting in ugly spots across his vision. He goes completely limp, dazed, and even the frantic need for air can't hit him strong enough to get him to move. His arms won't move. Nothing will.

He can't breathe, and he needs to. But he can't.

God, this is really how he's going to die, isn't it? In the middle of fucking nowhere, choked to death by this bastard because he won't risk letting go long enough to search for the knife.

He can hardly see him, anymore, so maybe it doesn't matter. His vision is fading inwards.

He hears a yell from very far away, and then a hoarse shout just in front of him. Something splatters across his face, burning nearly as bad as the pain.

Soran doesn't recognize the feeling of the hands releasing him, but he recognizes the ground.

He crumples into it face-first, unfortunately for him, and throwing a hand out to stop his progress does nothing when he's already there. The man in front of him is gone, although he can still hear the shouting. He tries to roll over and finally his vision _does_ go black, his body continuing down the path into unconsciousness. He clings to any light he can see, desperately, focuses on the noise. It's just so much yelling.

He can't make any fucking sense of it.

In the little bit of light he can see two shapes moving, though. They nearly look like one, spinning wildly around each other. That's where the shouting's coming from. Something shatters, and he feels the pieces of whatever it is rain down over his feet.

"— _fuck_. Soran!"

There's only one person in the entire world that would be shouting his name right now.

He doesn't roll over, but he plants a hand under himself and pushes up. He still feels like he could pass out, the dizziness refusing to fade, but he looks up towards the movement, the source of the sound.

It would be hard not to recognize Icarus, even on a bad day. This is a pretty terrible day. He would never say Icarus is small but he looks it, next to this guy. There's glass all over the floor, the muted green of the bottle, and the man's shoulder is bleeding profusely. Soran smears a hand through the blood, sticky all over his face.

God, Icarus just saved his life. He's never gonna live that one down.

He's still shouting, though. There's nowhere to go in this room, not unless he abandons Soran to this man's whims and runs for it, which is something he would have initially bet on Icarus doing in the first place, instead of getting involved.

Hell, he didn't think he was coming back at all.

He crawls forward, knees catching on the pavement. They're going at each other with their fists, for christ's sake, and Soran's learned first hand that Icarus doesn't know how to throw a punch to save his life. The damage to his face, or the lack thereof, is living proof of that. He fumbles for a chunk of the bottle, closing his fingers around the biggest one he can find. There's no way he has time to look for the knife. He half-watches as the man takes Icarus straight to the ground. He knows how crushing the weight is.

Soran has no chance at getting up, but he brings the glass down into the back of the man's leg and _pulls_.

There's an immediate spurt and gush of blood as he drags the glass down, from the back of the knee to the middle of his calf. It cuts a path down the center of his leg, nearly to the ankle. He howls in pain, rearing backwards. Soran sees the hands coming back for him and forces himself to stay put, fingers held tight to the glass.

His hand slams into his chest. It already hurts, is aching fiercely with the lack of air, and he swears he feels something crack.

There's no choice in the matter when he finally loses his grip on the glass, fingers slippery with blood. The man grabs him by the shoulder and slams him into the ground, which is possibly even worse than the wall. He can't wiggle free, can't do much of anything other than watch the very manic glint in his eye, the one that glances away for a too-long second.

He can see Icarus when he turns his head to follow, back on his feet.

"Fuck, don't let him move!"

He has absolutely fuck-all idea about what that's meant to be about, but clearly the man does. He pushes himself off of Soran, lunging off of him only a meter before it clicks. Soran grabs his arm and yanks him back down, locks an arm around his shoulders to keep him there as the man's weight collapses back on top of him. He can see nothing at all then, except the fabric of the man's shirt scratching at his face as he struggles to free himself.

But he hears it, the same way he's heard everything. The slick swing of the knife, the heavy thud of it connecting with flesh. The sharp, horrific scream that sounds nothing like the man above him but certainly has to be. The warm, wet splatter of blood again, all over the ground. He can still feel it dripping from his burning side, the inside of his arms. It's all fading into one noise, a symphony of all the awful things he hadn't imagined happening up until ten minutes ago.

He hears it, again and again, until the man goes limp on top of him. He sees only a sliver of Icarus stumbling away and then dropping to the ground like his legs have stopped working. The knife goes clattering to the ground between them. Soran rolls free of the dead weight of the body, reacquainting his face with the ground.

"Fuck," Icarus manages. "Fuck, shit. Fucking hell."

Soran can offer up nothing more than a weak groan in response, muffled into the floor. He can hear his own blood rushing in his ears more than any footsteps, and jolts when hands press insistently at the backs of his shoulders.

"Fucking chill, it's me," Icarus insists. "Jesus."

"Please don't," he mumbles.

"Don't what?"

He groans again, a few words that turn into a garbled string of noises as Icarus keeps his hands firmly where they're planted. It hurts. He's not sure why it hurts.

"God, you are not okay," Icarus mutters. His hands are still there though, still prodding at him like he has any right to. "Look at me, I'm serious."

He does, kind of. He twists his head to the side - he can't really see Icarus, just a very blurry outline of him. He would rather be left here than do anything else right now. He's never been in this much pain in his life. Every inch of him is throbbing, pulsing with all the blood that's leaking out of him like a faulty faucet. He can't even see properly enough to know if Icarus' face is bleeding, or if his vision is just that bad.

"Weapons," he says weakly, and Icarus looks around, quickly skittering away. Well, that was a sufficient distraction, and a good way to get him to leave for even a few seconds. He lays his head back on the floor, trying to move. He can still feel everything, even if he's a little numb. It feels like he took a wrecking ball to the chest. He curls his legs and arms up a little, trying to alleviate the pressure. He's fine to die like this instead, limp on the floor. At least he can say he chose it.

There's the grating sound of metal against the concrete floor, the slide of the sword as Icarus finds it in the darkness. "Fuck. Fuck, that's not good."

" _What?_ "

Icarus goes off muttering to himself while he lays there limp on the floor, finding his home for the foreseeable future. His footsteps are more frantic now, but Soran can't raise the energy to give a shit. He really couldn't care less right now.

"God, I guess I need you too," Icarus says, a second before he slides both of his arms somewhere under Soran's chest and yanks him to his feet in one graceless pull. Everything spins so violently he nearly throws up and winds up clutching at Icarus' arms like a baby that just took its first steps, trying to recognize the feeling of the floor under his feet.

"Don't—"

"We gotta go," Icarus insists. "The bracelet's fucking flashing, they must know he's dead. They know we killed him, fuck."

It takes him a long moment to process that. He can see something red flashing in the vicinity of their arms - that must be it. It's like the red flash of an emergency vehicle. The body's just in front of him, blood seeping over the numerous slashes and stabs all across his back. He wishes he even had an inkling over how many times Icarus stabbed him; it's never going to be enough. They fucking killed him. Are they allowed to kill them?

It's too late to wonder that now.

Icarus starts hauling him off. He has no idea where, couldn't care less. It's hard to even keep his feet firmly planted on the ground every time they lift up from it. For once in his life Icarus is doing all the work here, holding him upright and keeping him from melting back into the floor. A blast of wind hits him in the face, sand stinging what little of his eyes he's been able to keep open. He keeps them squeezed shut while Icarus half pushes and half drags him into the car, depositing him into one of the seats with a thud. He lets his body go loose again, head lolling to the side until it nearly rolls off.

Icarus clambers up beside him, weapons clinking together before he begins tossing them in the empty space between their seats. He watches them fall, knives and the sword and the everything else they had—

"Alright, let's go."

He blinks hazily. Everything is so fucking _blurry_ \- is the blood-loss destroying him that bad? Icarus is looking at him expectantly, leaning forward like he's waiting for something.

Soran looks forward. The steering wheel is in front of him.

"What?" he croaks out, staring at it. "You're not serious?"

"You have to drive."

"How— how is you not knowing how to drive going to be any worse than me driving when I can't even see straight?"

"There's nothing out here for you to hit. Foot on the gas, hands on the steering wheel, and go."

"No," he insists weakly. "Fuck you."

Icarus reaches forward and jams the keys in the ignition. The car rumbles to life, and he winces. "Do you wanna fucking die tonight?"

"Kinda."

"Shut _up_ ," Icarus snaps. "We're not dying tonight, because I saved your ass and we killed that guy and now we're getting the hell out of here. Are you listening to me?"

"I'm trying," he says, and isn't lying for once. Even his sentences are hardly making any sense, let alone the thoughts in his own brain. Foot on the gas, hands on the steering wheel - does he really wanna die tonight? After everything? He isn't so sure anymore. He thought a little part of Icarus wanted to die as well; clearly that isn't so much the case anymore.

He came back. He saved Soran's life.

"You can do this," Icarus says. "You're gonna be fine, alright?"

"Careful," he says slowly, swallowing to loosen up the taste of blood down the back of his throat. "That almost sounded concerned."

He launches a hand out until it bumps against the wheel, tightening his fingers around it. They're coated thick in blood like syrup, making it almost impossible to grip. Still, he knows Icarus is right. They don't move, they die. There's nothing else to that particular equation. They just killed one of the people hunting them when he doesn't think that was in the rule-book at all.

His foot inches against the gas pedal, sending the car forward a few feet. He can hardly see anything around him.

"You got it," Icarus says, and if Soran could raise the energy to make fun of him he would. The issue seems to be that Icarus really _does_ look concerned, a shade of something different in his eyes for once. Figures he can see that clear as day and nothing else. His hand is even slightly outstretched, like he's ready to grab onto him if he so much as wavers. So many levels of concern are in that one little gesture.

He's concerned, but not concerned enough to drive. Asshole.

"You got it," he repeats, as they shoot away through the dust and the dirt, leaving the blood behind.

Almost all of it, anyway.

Icarus' words would be foolish at any other time of day He doesn't have it. Not any of it. He could still bleed out in this car, right here next to him. Driving won't matter so much then.

But Icarus says it, so he believes it.

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16  
Applicant #17**

* * *

"You see that?" Meris asks.

Ria looks up, shielding her eyes against the settling sun. Her little project of sorts lies abandoned in her lap, the tin can Meris found and not much else, at the moment.

She's smart, but she's not sure she's smart enough to make any kind of explosive decisive.

That takes a special kind of talent, one she's not sure she has.

Besides, the more pressing matter at the current time seems to be the small outline of two figures approaching from the south. Smaller, but steadily getting bigger. Definitely headed towards them. The two of them are pretty well concealed, laying low near a cluster of rocks. They're pushing something along that looks like a bike, bigger than normal.

"You said a car might have most of the stuff, right?"

"Yes," she says slowly. Strangely enough it's the ingredients to make a bomb that see like the difficult things to put together out here. Once she has them it's just the combination process.

It was Meris' idea, but she's the one doing it. It's a self-defense mechanism, really, but on the other hand she knows it would be much easier to kill someone with a bomb, from a slight distance, than to ever have to do it with her own hands. At least then she could pretend it had been someone else, or that it had at least been quick enough that they didn't suffer.

She's going to load it with everything she can find, including the nails that she's found no use for yet.

Nails will do the job pretty effectively as a projectile.

Meris looks very thoughtful, standing above Ria. "Stay here."

"What?" she says, more than slightly alarmed, as Meris leaves the cover of the rock and heads down the hill towards the figures that are still coming towards them. She slides further into cover herself, dragging the bag and tin along with her, holding them close against her chest. Right now that's what important, she knows, but what the hell does Meris think she's doing? There's _two_ of them. Either she's planning on killing them, or she's going to attempt an alliance.

Either way, Ria's wondering in the back of her mind how she's going to get away. If she kills them, takes the bike, that's one option. Then she'll be stuck with someone who killed one more person than she has, risking herself for what? The chance of a bomb that may not even work?

The other option is they kill her. Ria really doesn't want to think that way.

She does a half sort-of army crawl further behind the rocks, tucking the canister away into a crevice between two of them, wrapping Mel's sweater around it for good measure. She's not taking any risks.

There's not such a good view between the gaps in the rocks. She grabs at the edge of them to pull herself up, trying to stay as low as possible. She even pulls her hood up over her head to hide her hair, hoping the gray will blend in better than the blue. Hopefully they'll be distracted enough by Meris that they won't notice her looking, because she can't imagine what would happen if they did.

It's difficult to make out the figures from this distance. She knows Meris only because of familiarity, because she knows the situation. She can't tell whether she ever spoke to them or not, although it's a likely _not_.

She can't tell what's going on either as they get closer and closer. They stop some distance away from each other; she can't tell if it's close enough for them to hear each other or have a civil conversation.

She's also not sure how civil a conversation can be between two different groups of people who haven't had any familiarity with each other over the past six days.

If only she had worked a bit faster, maybe the bomb would have been a more viable choice.

And then what? She's going to bomb two people who she doesn't even know straight to hell? And for what?

 _For what?_

She doesn't want to kill anyone else. She's not sure she can ever again. That just means she's doing to die, then, and she doesn't want to die either.

If only she could make a damn decision, one that really fit her. She doesn't want to betray Meris, but she has the option. She doesn't want to kill, but she doesn't want to die.

From this far away she can't even make out what they're doing. She's not sure who left the starting town with a bike, and there's no way to figure it out now. If this conversation is going well, she has no clue.

She slides back down the rock, hitting the ground with a thump. There's nothing she can do now. She doesn't have the guts to get up and go over there herself, back up Meris like any other good friend or ally would. That's what Mel would do if he was still here - he would be at her back, at her side, defending her or fighting with her.

And here Ria sits, like a coward. Listening for a conversation she can't hear, waiting for any sort of sign...

She nearly flattens her hands over hears at the mere thought that she could hear something, whether it be something going wrong or right. Like she said - a coward at its finest.

No, no. She has to figure something out. There's no use abandoning Meris now, not when she's still trying to help. She won't do any good in diplomatic conversation, but maybe if she crawled out from behind the rock that would be enough to distract them for at least a few seconds. If Meris has to kill them then so be it. Better Meris than her.

She braces her hands against the ground, preparing to get up.

 _Stand up_ , her brain says. _Stand up before something awful happens._

She's shaking like a leaf, she realizes, hidden away behind the rock where she's safest. It's the terror at showing herself that locks all of her limbs in place, that keeps her from doing anything at all.

"Get up," she says aloud, digging her hands into the ground until she feels the bitten edges of her nails start to tear even further. "Get up, you idiot."

She can't.

And that's when the screaming starts.

* * *

 **Jupiter Valens, 14  
Applicant #16**

* * *

He shouldn't be surprised when Meris lunges for him first.

He is, though. He's surprised by a lot.

She grabs him by the legs and tackles him to the ground, knocking the bike's handlebars from his grip. He looks like the weaker of the two - at least Sabre has the muscle mass of a more than slightly active human being, one that looks imposing enough.

Try as he may Jay absolutely does not look like that.

He falls with her wrapped around his legs, and then the bike falls half on top of them. Something smacks him in the face, causing his eyes to well up with tears and blur over so thoroughly he can't even see properly.

"Give me the bike," she had said.

He had replied with a very eloquent _uh, no?_ and now he was here, because Sabre hadn't looked all too eager to speak up.

Speaking of Sabre, what the hell is he doing right now?

Meris isn't all that heavy, so he feels instant relief as the bike is lifted off the both of them. She's strong, though, stronger than she looks, and doesn't give an inch even when he attempts to kick her away. Sabre drops the bike to his right and it crashes to the ground; it will be a miracle if it ever starts again. It's not what matters right now, but it's what Jay is thinking about to keep himself from panicking.

Screw that, he's panicking. He's panicking a whole hell of a lot.

There's so much dirt and dust being kicked up into his eyes that he can hardly see, so he misses when Sabre finally gets Meris off of him, who's windmilling around so much that she keeps striking him with her feet. She's strong, definitely stronger than him, but two against one was never a fair fight in any sense, especially not out here.

He rolls out of the way once Sabre has her up, missing whatever scuffle ensues as a result. Probably Sabre getting hit when he doesn't want to, hitting back when he wants to even less.

He hasn't been with him very long, but he gets the sense that Sabre never wanted to kill Faye.

Finally his hands find the metal bar and he rolls back over, practically crawling back towards where the two of them are doing... what, he's not sure. It looks like Sabre is trying to avoid as much of it as humanly possible, succeeding only half the time. But it's giving him enough time to do something.

He's not sure what, but he's going to do something.

"The bag!" Sabre yells at him, and the sheer volume of his voice has Jay stopping in his tracks. He wasn't aware the dude had a volume above a low-medium, and now he's yelling? What's wrong with today?

He grabs at the bag, spilling over onto the ground and spreads out everything he can get his hands on. The gas canister hasn't opened, by some miracle, everything is still there.

And there's something else he hasn't seen before, about the size of his hand, ending in a long metal spike.

Someone grabs his arm and wrenches it back. Oh, there's Meris again. Apparently she got tired of Sabre screwing with her.

She kicks him in the back, a solid, real _kick_ and he does a literal faceplant into the back of the bike. Something in his face splits open; blood flows into his mouth immediately, he suspects, from his nose and God knows what else.

And he never even grabbed the tool, but Meris hasn't either. He has no idea where it is now.

She's twisting his arm so much that it's going to pop out if she doesn't just quit it - he shouts at how bad it hurts, can't imagine how much worse it can get. There's blood in his eyes, now, and he can't even so much as see it. So his forehead is split open too, then? How much blood is covering his face right now? In the very least, he's hoping it looks cool.

"Jay!"

Another shout again. He blinks some of the blood from his eyes.

The metal tool lands a foot away from his free hand - Sabre must have lobbed it as close as he could get without interfering for real. He stretches out, inch by inch, until his fingers brush against the edge of it, his pinky curling around it and dragging it closer.

He rears back, as suddenly as he can. The back of his skull connects with Meris' face or something equally detrimental, because she howls with pain.

Good. Now they have the same fucking _nose._

She flails backwards. Sabre all but catches her as she stumbles back into his arms away from Jay, clutching a hand to her face. He scoops up the tool, lunges forward.

Sabre's eyes are saying _this wasn't what I had in mind_.

Yeah, it wasn't what Jay had in mind either.

He buries the spike in her chest, over where he's certain the heart has to be. She gasps, chokes out something. It takes a few seconds before her legs go limp and he yanks the thing back out, watching as blood soaks through the thin layer of her shirt instantly.

Sabre is still holding onto her, staring at her with his eyes very far-away.

"Shit," he says. "Shit, ow. What the fuck?"

He sits down with a thud, smacking his tailbone into the bike as well for good measure. He clutches at his nose, presses his sleeve to it to try and stop some of the bleeding. He can't even tell where the vast majority of it is coming from, and he still can't really see properly, either. He wants to look at the bracelet, wants to have confirmation of what they just did...

There's a loud thump and then a second later hands are pulling at his wrist. He flinches.

"Just me," Sabre informs him. "Are you okay?"

"Great," he manages. "Peachy. Fine and dandy. I'm being a baby, sorry."

"No, you're not. Don't say that."

He nods. That hurts too. Sabre continues peeling his hands away until they're resting limply in his lap, prodding at a spot on his forehead that's almost certainly split open by the feel of it.

"Is she dead?" he asks.

"I— I think so."

"You _think_?"

"She's not moving."

Okay, well he'll take that. He really doesn't want to get up and check. It's not like he can see very well anyway.

"We killed someone," he says, almost dazedly. "Fuck, we killed someone."

"We did," Sabre agrees. He's a million miles away right now, Jay can tell. That's probably a nice place to be. Hell, Sabre's killed _two_ people now, he's probably just mentally living and on vacation in whatever faraway place he's chosen.

"I'm okay," he insists. "Head wounds bleed a lot - that's a thing, right?"

"I think your nose might be broken."

"Oh, okay," he says. "Uh, nice, I guess?"

"If it helps, I think a lot of people would define that as _cool_ ," Sabre says, and Jay almost winces at the layer of awkwardness that seeps into his voice, like Sabre isn't even sure that's the truth. To put it in a sort of awful way, he doesn't think Sabre knows all that much about what's cool and what isn't. But it almost... it almost sounded like a joke.

After they just killed someone. Coming from Sabre. It's so wrong on so many levels.

Sabre offers a hand up and he rises to his feet with the help of it, swaying for a few moments. Sabre steadies him and then leans down to pick the bike. Jay holds onto that instead while Sabre re-packs the bag.

"I don't think walking's gonna end well for me right now," he decides.

"We'll drive for a bit. The gas should hold long enough."

He nods, clambering onto the back of the bike without being asked. He already knows he can't drive for shit, and Sabre's been at this for a few days. He's just going to crash them into a rock at the rate he's going. The blood in his eyes is certainly a problem he didn't think he was going to have today, but apparently Sabre thinks it's cool. Or not, and Sabre's just saying that for his own benefit.

Probably the latter.

A few moments pass, a quiet settling over them. He turns even though his head throbs and spins. Sabre is staring past Meris' body, at a safe distance over it, to the hills not far away.

"What?" he asks.

"Nothing. Here."

He takes the bag like a good, injured little ally and shoulders it while Sabre clambers onto the bike in front of him.

"I might fall off," he warns him.

"I'd prefer if you didn't."

So would he. It's not like he wants to fall off. He holds on with an intensity that is probably ridiculously unnecessary for the pace they're going to be traveling at, but he's jittery and bleeding and he has a very bad head wound okay, so sue him.

He notices that Sabre turns away from Meris' body, towards the hills beyond. That's the direction they were headed.

But not anymore.

Jay decides to keep his mouth shut, for now.

* * *

 **Verity Alameda, 13  
Applicant #3**

* * *

She knew this would come to a boiling point.

If that's the case, then Damas dying right in front of them was like turning the heat settings on the stove up, after Carnelia had pressed the damn button in the first place. Or maybe Carnelia had put the pot of water on, and Damas had pressed the button...

That's easily the dumbest analogy she's ever come up with, and she's come up with a lot of them.

It's a great time for weird analogies.

Percy keeps looking over his shoulder at her, too often for it to not be something more than just general concern. He's so used to her walking ahead, much faster than he ever could. It must be weird.

It's not just the _weird_ that keeps making him do it, though. He's got his tomahawk, her with her pickaxe. She's got easy access to his back, whereas it would take him a few seconds to turn around and hit her with his own weapon. She really doesn't like that she's thinking that way, but it's the only way to think, really. Ever since this morning something has shifted. Something's changed.

She doesn't like it anymore than she thinks he likes it, but that's what it's come down to.

"Percy?" she asks, and he slows incrementally, enough for her to gain a few steps.

"What?"

"Nothing," she murmurs. "Sorry."

They haven't spoken in hours. Something in her was missing the sound of another human voice out in the middle of this emptiness. The other part just wanted to get a bit closer, not enough to be really noticeable, but just enough to gain on him a few paces before he starts up walking again.

She doesn't want to die. Percy doesn't seem like the type to want to kill her, but he also let Damas die, too. She's certain of it. Neither of them did anything that could have stopped it, but Percy never seemed to care as much as she did. He wasn't the one who pledged to protect Damas, wasn't the one who found him and chose to stay with him right from the get-go.

Maybe Percy never really cared at all, although the weight of the tarot cards showing through his pockets says otherwise.

She doesn't know what to believe, anymore.

"Are you scared of me?" Percy asks, not breaking pace. In fact, this time he doesn't even turn to look at her. It's odd for how many times he has done it in the past few hours.

"I," she starts, unsure of where to go.

"You are, aren't you?" There's nothing accusing in his voice, just quiet resignation. It's still somehow something that doesn't make her feel any _less_ scared or nervous, this lack of judgement on his part. It almost makes her feel worse for contemplating what she's been contemplating, for thinking it in the first place. Truth be told, though, she's been feeling worse this whole time.

Like she said, this is just the time it's come to a boiling point.

"I get it," Percy says understandingly. "Believe me, I do, but—"

She lunges forward brandishing the pickaxe at the same time he turns around to look her in the eye for the hundredth time.

She didn't expect him to turn around again.

He dives out of the way - the pickaxe practically whistles as it swings through the space where the center of his back had been. She's not even sure if she would have strong enough to do any real, death-worthy damage. It was worth a shot. Maybe not now, though, because he's gotten out of the way in time and has whirled on her, eyes wide. She's not sure she can look him in the face and do it; she wouldn't have been able to see the shock, the pain, the betrayal.

She sees all of it now, his fingers tightening around the tomahawk's handle most of all.

"I'm sorry," she says.

"Is that what you've been telling yourself?"

"Don't act like you're not thinking it too!" she shouts.

"Thinking it and _following through_ are two different things!" he yells back. "Fucking hell, I was never going to..."

He trails off. She gets the feeling that's not the truth - it doesn't seem like any of them are so good at telling the truth anymore.

"I was never going to," he settles on, as if that's supposed to be good enough. Maybe for a lot of people it would be. Certainly Damas would have accepted that as an answer, as most of the others would have.

But she's scared. She's scared when she dives forward again, aiming for his chest. Just make it quick, quick is the only thing she can do now, and then it'll be over with. She'll be on her own, but at least she won't have to be so scared anymore. She won't have to worry about him anymore, him or Damas. They'll be gone, and it'll be better that way. Safer.

This time Percy barely gets out of the way in time, but he does. She prepares to turn around, to strike again, hoping for the best—

Something sinks into her back, between her shoulders. Something sharp.

It takes a moment, for the pain to hit. In fact, it doesn't, until Percy tugs it out with an awful sounding _squelch._ A strangled scream erupts from her throat, a sound that sounds nothing like her. It could be someone else, for all she knew.

She hits the ground face-first. It definitely wasn't someone else.

"I wasn't going to," he repeats, as if that makes it better. As if she's not bleeding out in the dirt at his feet. "I wasn't going to."

It doesn't sound like he's saying for her benefit.

No, that's all for himself.

She can't move. It feels like she's been paralyzed, nothing more than her fingers able to stretch out, searching for nothing at all. She's dropped the pickaxe, too - it lies crushed under her torso, poking painfully into her ribs.

"I'm sorry," he says, and it sounds more genuine in his voice than it did hers.

That's the worst part.

The tomahawk sinks into her back again. It doesn't hurt so much, this time.

A few seconds later, nothing hurts at all.

* * *

 **Jahaira Aurelion, 16  
Applicant #23**

* * *

Arwen stares at her for a very long time before she goes to sleep.

It would be disheartening, if she wasn't so used to it.

She already offered to take first watch, after persuading Arwen six times over that she wasn't tired, even though she was. She could last a few more hours before she woke up Arwen to take over. She can't help but think to the days, so far away now, where none of them bothered to stay up. It hadn't felt real then - it felt like they were untouchable, unkillable. If it hadn't happened yet it wouldn't happen at all.

How wrong they had been.

Arwen rolls over in her sleep, facing away. She always falls asleep now facing towards wherever Jahaira is sitting, like a force of habit.

They won't expose their backs to each other anymore, not for a second.

There was a time when Jahaira really thought they could be friends. Not traditional ones, not the best type to exist, but at least companions that valued each other's company. That time has fled the premises, if it was ever really there to begin with. Chances are she was just imagining that like she's been imagining most things. It's easier that way.

She killed someone, tried to bury the body. Arwen helped her finish. That in itself still feels like a hallucination.

That is _definitely_ the easier track.

She misses the chatter of other people, the conversation that came with being a group. She misses figuring people out, learning who they were and who they are today. She misses those same people asking questions like them in return. She misses answering them.

She could try with Arwen, but she doesn't think she'd get very far.

Jahaira flops back into the dirt and pulls her camera out, shocked at how alien the thing feels in her hands. She hasn't taken a picture since the morning Emmi died, since everything went to shit. Hell, she's barely touched it. In an odd sort of way it feels like her camera and all the photography was what caused it in the first place - it's not, regardless of who brought it up, but it feels that way.

She begins to scroll through the last few pictures she took. Lots of landscape shots, a few of the others. At least one of everyone she once knew - Myra smiling, Gideon mid-glare as he had realized what she doing, Jupiter's cheery smile when _they_ had realized. Emmi and Arwen are staring very dopily at each other, smiling like idiots.

It's the only picture she has of the two of them together.

There's so many angles of that _damn_ cliff, close-up shots of some of the flowers Gideon had brought back with him, the odd color of the rust on the truck in the dawn.

She has shots of the others, too, back at the Institute. Virtually everyone, from close up and far away. The Instructors, too, and Aelia. All of them are tucked away into this one little thing, like a time capsule.

The last photo is one of Raelle, up on the roof the day she had found out she was accepted. Her sister looks peaceful in the sunlight all half-asleep, eyes narrowed to slits like a cat's would be. She looks so small.

Her eyes are welling up with tears before she knows it. Normally she's so good with uploading her pictures to a back-up file the same day, but she had been so preoccupied with packing once she found out that she had simply forgotten to. It hadn't seemed important then, anyway. She would have had all the time in the world to upload them once she got back. _Should_ have had all that time.

It feels like something was ripped away from her, and she doesn't even know what it was. She had no idea what she was really going to do in the future, no whims except for the ones that involved a camera in her hands.

She kind of wants to throw it as hard as she can, but she doesn't. She holds her arms up and takes a picture of the night sky, instead. She remembers a few years back when the resolution was so low that almost nothing would show up in the dark - now when she looks at the screen she can see all the thousands of stars, the off-white glow of the moon.

Her parents had splurged for her fourteenth birthday to get a camera she had been fawning over. She had cried when she opened it.

It didn't matter now.

This camera has done nothing for her. It hasn't made anything better, hasn't turned this ugly, awful mess into something worthwhile, something worth remembering. It's just making her want to forget it all even more. She doesn't want these memories, doesn't want to look at them because they make her stomach twist and turn like she's going to be sick.

But this is all she is. All she's ever known how to be, contained in one little memory chip.

Jahaira already feels like she's lost enough of herself.

She doesn't have the courage to let go of this, too.

* * *

Gonna get yelled at for this one, aren't I? I deserve it and fully accept it.

But hey, final twelve, am I right? Halfway there! Let me know your thoughts, opinions, upcoming predictions, etc, if you feel so inclined. I would really appreciate it.

Until next time.


	30. Bury A Friend

XXVII: Day Seven, Dawn.

* * *

 **Gideon Mallory, 16  
Applicant #20**

* * *

He's always been an early riser.

Baseball practice just sort of did that, he guesses. If they weren't practicing after school the coaches insisted on practicing at Hell O'Clock In The Morning, some god-awful time that no actual human being existed in.

It's a good thing he never minded waking up that early, because the amount of windows in this place has made it impossible for him to sleep any later than the dawn. Jupiter seems to be having no problem with it at all, curled up in one of the largest armchairs he's ever seen. It doesn't look as good as it once did, he's sure, but it's still pretty damn nice.

The whole place is, really. It looks like something out of a book - probably was, once upon a time, if he's being honest with himself. Everything just has that ornate quality about it - the crystal chandeliers that are all half-broken, the outdated wallpaper and rugs, the high ceilings and wooden details and just all of it, really.

He's not usually one to appreciate things like this, but all the dark wood and little details are bringing him back to Seven for now.

He never thought he would _miss_ Seven, not like how he missed the Capitol, but he had finally built a life there. One that he was probably never going back to, even if he was the last one standing. Had the Sentinels ever said anything about a victor, about one possible survivor? He tries to wrack his brain but can come up with almost nothing.

Oh well. He's not going to dwell on it. They've survived this long.

He picks up the bat and the long, curved knife he found yesterday, leaving Jupiter with the fire poker they had pulled out of the ashes in the front hall's fireplace. Not that they're ever going to use it, he has no doubt, but he feels better leaving them with something.

They still haven't found much in the way of food; he's still eating almost nothing but flowers and other things he's plucking from the bushes outside, but there's a well out-back with stale water at the bottom. It's been rejuvenated by the recent rain but still doesn't taste all the way right. Still, he'll take a stomach-ache over the constant exhaustion that comes from dehydration. It's not a bad trade-off.

He makes his way outside, slowly, scanning the hall and everything they searched yesterday just in case they happened to miss something.

Deep down he's still praying for some food.

He has to be quick about this, though, because if Jupiter wakes up they'll come tearing after him, worried, no doubt, about something that has yet to happen. They might as well sleep for as long as they can, while the both of them are relatively safe. It doesn't even look like anyone else has been here any time in the past seven days - no, they're the lucky ones, somehow.

He doesn't feel very lucky, although maybe he should.

He nearly trips down the stairs and then again on the cracked tile next to the back door. He tucks the pot by the door under his arm and makes his way out to the well. The dawn's light is still weak, filtering in over the mountains and through the trees. Right now it has no effect on his reddened, sensitive skin, which is, in the very least, an indeed lucky thing.

Really he just needs to shut the hell up and stop complaining, because he's alive, unlike twelve others.

God, there's only twelve of them left. How are half of them really, truly dead?

He attaches the pot back to the rope dangling from the well's arch. The bucket was gone, leading him to believe he was going to have to crawl down the rock interior to get to the water, which he damn well was about to do before Jupiter had ran back inside to get something else.

It's a good thing he had them, really. He probably would have done something stupid enough to get himself killed by now.

Death via being stuck in the bottom of a well didn't seem very appealing. At least he would have had water.

The crank isn't as hard to turn as it was yesterday now that he's wedged it free, and although it's a bit difficult with the level of the water and the awkward angle of the pot, it's not so hard to get some and pull it back up when you've come as close to full-out dehydration as the both of them have. Like he said, he was about to dive down there yesterday. It really isn't so bad.

He downs nearly the entire pot of water before Jupiter makes their way out of the building behind him, which is longer than he expected to be alone. It still tastes funny, like iron and rust and just... dirt, really, but he could care less.

"Are you going to share that?"

"Nope," he announces, shaking the last few drops of water into his mouth before he drops the pot back down the well and repeats the process to fill it up again for them.

"Rude," Jupiter informs them, peering over the lip of the well to the water below. "This probably isn't good for us, isn't it?"

"I'd be surprised if it was."

They hum, apparently as uncaring as he is. He pulls up another potful of water and they take it, taking just as large of gulps as he previously was.

Yeah, they definitely don't care either. He'd be shocked if they did. Maybe it matters more to them, with the cancer and all that. He has fuck-all knowledge about how that effects the immune system in the long run. He probably should have listened to his dad more, or anyone for that matter. Hell, maybe if he even picked up a book he'd know a few more things than he did.

"Thanks," Jupiter says once they've finished draining the pot. They thank him every time, for anything, no matter how often he tells them not to.

At this point he's just letting them do it.

He unties the pot, resting it against the side of the well. " _Well_ , what do you wanna do today?"

They laugh. "Quit it with the terrible jokes."

"Well you laughed, didn't you?"

"Stop!" they insist, still laughing. "I don't know, enjoy the day, I guess? It's nice out."

It is. It's still early, it probably won't be later on, but he doesn't have the heart to say that aloud and ruin the nice moment that they've pointed out. It would just be nice to take an easy day, to rest, to catch up on some much-needed sleep. His legs could really use a break.

His brain could too, if he's being honest.

"Sounds good to me," he agrees.

And it really does.

It feels good to admit that, finally. It's not all bad.

Not yet, anyway.

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16  
** **Applicant #17**

* * *

Everything that's happened is her fault.

Now that she's alone, there's no convincing her otherwise.

She sits behind the rock after everything's done and over with for hours, crying for no reason at all. It's not because she's allowed to feel bad - if she wanted to feel bad, she would have intervened. Not because she's alone, now, she's always been most comfortable that way anyway.

It's just... odd. She can't figure out why she's crying. She's never cried so much in her life.

When she finally starts walking it's with no real rhyme or reason, clutching her ramshackle tin can bomb against her chest and stumbling through the sand closer to the mountains. She doesn't stop, doesn't try to sleep. In the few seconds when she dares to blink she sees Meris' body, the close up, terrible version of it. She doesn't even know how it is that she died because she wouldn't head that way to check after the others were gone.

She imagines a lot of blood, though, unknowing if that's the truth or if it even could have been less messy.

Everything just seems very messy these days.

Her entire body is drooping with exhaustion by the time she reaches the edge of the mountains, looking up at the climb with a weariness settling heavily on her bones.

She deserves that. It's fine. She's the worst sort of person that could possibly exist at this point in time.

Not any further up above her though is a little shack, bigger than the one they had been staying at previously. Big enough to house several different rooms, so not really a shack at all.

And there's a car behind it. A ramshackle, almost in two entirely different pieces car.

She speeds up at the sight of it, trips, and nearly falls.

Okay then.

The entire car groans when she pushes even a finger against it, so rusted away that she can practically see through the entire thing. The engine is still there, though, and most of the things that typically belong under a hood. She thinks, anyway. She's not so much of a car person. She just knows they need fuel, obviously, to run, and old-fashioned ones like this almost always had a battery. That's what she needs. Acid and fuel.

She almost starts crying again.

The bomb had seemed like a distant possibility no matter how tightly she clutched it against her chest like a lifeline. She had almost dropped it so many times in her exhausted state, especially in the mile or so that she had been followed by a few very petulant wasps. She didn't even know there were wasps out here, and now they were following her and stinging her. A sting hurt more than it usually would - it was sharp, intense, a strike of pain in her shoulder and then another on her thigh.

It was a good thing she wasn't allergic.

She puts the tin down on the ground up against the building along with her bag and begins to pry off what's left of the hood, wincing at the shrieking sound it emits. It nearly disintegrates in her hands, particles of rust and metal all turning into one.

She finds the battery quicker than she expected - first because of it's bright blue label spread all the way along the front, and then because of the faded 'SUV BATTERY' sign at the bottom.

She really isn't good with cars.

Her hands find a home in the car's guts, really, pulling the battery apart from the rest of the machine without much confusion. She finally wiggles it free. It's much heavier than she expected, and she's not entirely sure how to get what she wants out of it, but she'll figure it out. She doesn't really have a choice.

The fuel tank is much easier to find, more obvious. She inspects it for a few long minutes, looking for an easy solution that just... doesn't appear. When she peers into the hole after uncapping the thing it appears that there's gas in it, but she's not about to siphon it out. And with what, anyway? She has no tube to get it out with.

Eventually she cuts her losses and rolls under the back end of the car, banging her head against the edge of it for good measure.

That's just her life right now.

It's a little bit cooler here than it is anywhere else. There's a little buzzing and a bee comes crawling out of the mess of the car above her.

"No," she says flatly, as if that will dissuade it. It takes flight and buzzes right over her face, disappearing.

There's a small bolt screwed into the bottom of the fuel tank, as if plugging it. She twists at it a few times but it appears rusted shut, sealed tightly to the tank itself.

Well, not for long. She's not leaving until she gets it open.

She shuffles out for a moment to grab the bag and the empty bottle of hydrogen peroxide, ignoring the thoughts that come with it. There's another sharp, stinging pain in her ankle as she kicks out and wiggles back under the car - that damn _bee_ , and she finally rolls back under it and begins to twist at the bolt again.

It takes her nearly fifteen, probably twenty minutes before the bolt comes loose at all, and another five before she moves out of the way to hold the bottle underneath, feeling confident in how far along she's come. By that time she's panting with exhausting, sweating all over despite the cool air hidden in this little bit of shade. Her arm is strained and shaking from all the work, reminding her of just how little she's done in way of exercise virtually ever.

A steady little flow of fuel spills out of the tank and into the bottle, some trickling over her fingers.

Once again, she nearly cries. She could break a new record.

She fills the bottle up as much as humanly possible at this odd angle, her body tingling with numbness, and caps it before she rolls back out into the sunlight. There she lays as she regains her breath, wetting her lips although it does no good.

Her lips are sort of numb, too. Why are her lips numb?

She sits up and everything stays in one place, thankfully. Is she that out of shape? She rubs at her head where she smacked it against the underside of the car and then grabs onto it as she rises to her feet.

She puts down her right foot and nearly shouts with pain as it threatens to give away underneath her. What the hell?

Her skin, when she touches it at the skin of her ankle to roll her pants up, is tender and red, already starting to swell. Instead of the barely visible sting of a bee there are two puncture wounds in her ankle just above where the bone juts out, bleeding only slightly. When she tries to put weight on it again she knows without trying that she'd be struggling at an awkward limp, unable to put most of her weight on it.

Not a bee. That's a snake.

She looks around, wildly, but there's no sign of the thing. _Under the car_. She backs away from it and nearly slams into the building, clutching at it with shaking fingers. What do they say about snakebites, that you should try and see what kind it is to better treat it?

Nope, nope. She's definitely not doing that.

This isn't good. This is very, very bad. Her lips are numb when she prods at them and part of her right cheek, too.

That's really not good.

It doesn't matter if she looks, because there's no treatment. There's no hospitals, no access to antivenom or anything that could save her. She could delude herself into thinking it's not poisonous, but the numbness, the swelling, the _pain..._

It's definitely poisonous.

And she's definitely going to die.

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17  
Applicant #10**

* * *

His neck is very sore when he wakes up.

His head is leaned very awkwardly up against the window, the seat-belt digging into his neck. Why does he even have that on, again? He doesn't remember buckling it.

Really, he doesn't even remember falling asleep. They were driving. Soran had finally looked like he wasn't about to pass out the second Icarus glanced away, so he had leaned his head up against the window, and—

Had he really fallen asleep?

The car definitely isn't moving anymore, instead parked in the narrow space between two buildings. Buildings aren't great, from what he remembers, and there are several of them spread about. He doesn't remember stopping, because he was asleep, and he doesn't remember succumbing to that either.

To his left, Soran looks conveniently a hundred and fifty percent dead in the driver's seat. He's also asleep, knees up to his chest, curled into as little of a ball as he can manage. He stares for a long moment before he gives in and pulls his hand free from where it's curled around his knees, feeling for a pulse at his wrist. It's still there, miraculously, even if he still can't see the rise and fall of his chest.

What he can see, now that he has the light to, is how god-fucking-awful he looks. There's blood _everywhere -_ arms, neck, face, places he probably can't even see.

Icarus' face is throbbing in places he didn't know it could throb, but he's not that bad off.

Eventually he clambers out of the car and looks around, at the cluster of low-lying, non-descript buildings. It seems to be tucked away enough, and they weren't killed in their sleep, so that's good. He peers into the cracked window of the building they're closest to - it's nothing but one large room and a few pieces of furniture, signs of an old kitchen broken down on the other side.

Okay, this is on him now. He's relatively intact. More intact than Soran.

He pulls open the driver's side door, thankfully prepared for when Soran comes sliding out as limp as can be, hitting his outstretched arms with a thud. Icarus all but drags him out of the car as gently as he possibly can, which really isn't that gentle at all.

"Ow," Soran mumbles, the second his feet are somewhat against the ground. If Icarus let go of him right now he'd hit the dirt. " _Why_?"

"I'm bringing you inside."

"Inside _where_?"

"Wherever the hell you stopped us last night."

Soran isn't cooperating in the slightest, which isn't surprising. He grapples back at Icarus' arms, trying and apparently failing to stand up right. "You fell asleep."

"How long are you going to hold that against me?"

"Forever."

"Great," he says flatly. "After I saved your life?"

"You wouldn't have had to save my life if you hadn't left," Soran points out. His feet really aren't anywhere near solid on the ground - Icarus gives up and starts dragging him towards the front door instead.

"Are we really getting into this right now?" he asks.

"If you want," he mumbles in response, wincing when Icarus accidentally runs the two of them into the doorframe.

"You can't even look up, let alone hold a proper conversation with me."

"Everything _hurts_ ," he complains, which is about as close as Soran will get to admitting he's in pain and suffering a whole hell of a lot for it. The fact that he's relying on Icarus alone to keep him upright says a lot too. He drags him over the thresh-hold and into the building, depositing him in the corner of the room nearest to the couch that's full of too many holes to properly sit on. Once Soran's sitting he looks around, dazed. Icarus watches him sway in place for a moment.

"Where are we again?" Soran asks, genuinely confused.

"No clue."

He hums under his breath and then slumps back against the wall, wincing when his head connects with it. He raises up one of his arms and even Icarus is pained with the amount of effort it looks like it takes.

"My skin is hanging off my arm," he observes, and Icarus is torn between looking and well, throwing up.

"Great," he repeats. "Don't move. I'm gonna go get the stuff."

There's a first-aid kit in there. He can do something with that. Whatever's in there isn't going to do anything for the apparent pained mush that is Soran's current state of mind, but he needs to take baby steps here. If he could patch him up, at least help alleviate some of the pain...

He stops outside and puts his head in his hands, ignoring the tenderness that radiates out from the middle of his face when he presses his fingers into his eyes. He had already been about to come back, but then he had heard the fucking _scream_ and that had nearly made him throw up as well. There wasn't any question in his mind when he had went back in there, no fear at all because if he let himself be scared then one of them, at least, was going to die.

He hadn't wanted Soran to die - every part of him had known that, because of how much he fucking cares.

He cares way too much. Way more than he ever wanted to, and there's no getting rid of it now.

"Fuck my life," he announces yet again, scooping up the bag from the backseat along with the sword and few knives, still lying abandoned between the front two seats. Why does he have to care, especially at the level of he does?

If he's being real with himself, it's beyond caring.

It's beyond caring, and he wants to punch _himself_ for it.

Once back inside he stops, just inside the door, staring at Soran's limp form, now curled up on the floor once again in a little ball. He looks asleep again, doesn't move even when Icarus walks right up to him.

"Soran," he tries. No response. He sits down next to him with a sigh. At least he's alive - this close he can see the rise and fall of his chest, at least, and that's somewhat reassuring. He's not going to die, or else it would have already happened.

He upends the contents of the bag on the floor to his right. There's a decent amount in it; food, water, medical supplies. Hopefully enough to get them through whatever the rest of this will even entail, and once Soran wakes up they can work on the injuries. He doesn't have the heart to wake him up now that he's seen firsthand just how out of it he really is.

And Soran's right, too - if Icarus hadn't left chances are this wouldn't have happened. They could have taken the guy together, probably.

He pulls the last of the supplies from the bag and then folds the whole thing in half, ever so gently sliding his hand under Soran's head to lift it up, wedging the backpack underneath it as much as he can manage. He mumbles something under his breath but doesn't properly wake, and Icarus pulls his hands away carefully, grateful beyond words that his eyes never re-open, that he isn't properly disturbed.

With yet another sigh he lays down next to him, staring up at the cracked and dirty ceiling.

This is his life now. This is really, truly it.

It's all sorts of bad, of scary. He feels sick just looking at Soran now, at the damaged state of him.

They're really, awfully good at hurting each other, unintentionally or not.

He doesn't want to hurt him anymore.

Starting today, he's done with it.

* * *

 **Sabre Hennedige, 15  
Applicant #6**

* * *

Jay's face looks progressively worse as time goes on.

He hasn't once complained about it since the actual incident, keeping silent instead and grimacing when he thinks Sabre can't see him doing it, rubbing at his face gingerly.

His nose is _definitely_ broken and a hair crooked. He doesn't think pointing that latter part out will go over well, so he doesn't.

When he finally stops the bike it's because the terrain is getting rockier and rockier by the mile and although he won't say it, he can tell Jay's not enjoying it. They could drive on for a while longer as there's no point in stopping, but it's been a while since either of them have slept, and they could both use a break.

It's been a tough time accepting that _he_ needs a break, and more importantly that he's allowed to do so. Not everything he does needs to be so driven, so hyper-focused. It's worth taking time for himself that doesn't involve stressing him out even more.

And right now's really not about him, anyway. He's felt that way a lot in the past, but at least right now it's because he doesn't think he's worth it.

"Are we stopping for good?" Jay asks, glancing around.

"If you want. There's enough rocks - good cover from the wind.

And from everyone else, too. No Meris' will be creeping up on them if they're hidden.

Jay nods and gets off the bike. Sabre rolls it a few more feet forward before getting off likewise, setting it against one of the larger rocks. Jay sits down in the shadow of it with a thump, still insistently prodding at his face. It's all swollen and bruised, blood crusted around the bottom of his nose and lips.

"How's it feel?"

"Awful," he answers. "Is that normal? I've never broken my nose before."

"I haven't either," he admits. "I think that's normal. As long as you can still breathe I think it should be fine, so just keep an eye on that."

Jay glances down at his own nose, or at least tries to, eyes nearly crossing in his rather pointless quest. It feels like a piss poor attempt at humor even if he didn't intend for it. He gives up for good only a few seconds in, flopping over onto his side and cushioning his face with his arms. It still doesn't look particularly comfortable.

He picks his own spot more carefully, settling down just in front of him with the bag in his lap, wrapping an arm around it.

"Stop doing that," Jay says, though his voice lacks the conviction that would make Sabre really question it.

"Stop doing what?"

"Messing with your ear. It's already got like, a hole in it, dude, and I'm trying not to focus on it but you keep messing with it."

He pulls his hand away from his ear; how long has he been doing that, exactly? More than once, too, judging by what Jay has said. He can feel the ridge, the separation in his lobe from where the earring tore through it. It's all scabby now, doesn't burn as fiercely.

"Faye tore it out when she fell," he tells him. "She tried to grab onto me. I don't think she meant it."

"Yikes," Jays flatly. "Seriously, stop messing with it. You're just going to make it worse or rip off the scabs or something."

"Stop touching your nose, then."

Jay jerks his hand away from his nose as if it started to burn, suddenly. "I'm not."

"You are. It can't feel good."

"It _doesn't_ ," he agrees. "It feels like twice the normal size, I can't help it."

"It's not - just a little swollen. It's still a lot smaller than mine."

Jay cracks his eyes open, rolling over a bit. "There's nothing wrong with your nose."

"I didn't say there was."

"No, but you implied it," Jay insists. "Coming from someone who has an awful lot of opinions on an awful lot of faces, take it from me. Yours is fine. It could definitely be worse."

Sabre's not sure what that is, exactly. A backhanded compliment? It could be worse? Sure, like most things. But again, like most things, it could also be better. There's not really any changing that. Jay seems so confident in everything he does, even when it comes down to him bashing his own face in.

"How do you do it?" he asks.

"Do what?"

"Like yourself. You do it very easily."

"You don't... like yourself?" Jay questions, and he shrugs. He's still not really sure. He's trying, but most days it's a struggle. It's even harder when he's also trying to come to terms with what he's done, trying to find appropriate ways to cope with it that don't involve him destroying himself. That's usually the path he goes down first, and it's never done any good.

Truthfully, he wants to get far away from that path.

"I guess," Jay starts. "I mean, my arms are like spaghetti noodles, right? Not going to impress anyone. But you can't change that unless you have the right mindset. And that's super hard, too."

"So..."

"I'm not saying you have to get up tomorrow morning and be like, in love with yourself, because it's not going to happen. You just have to start somewhere. You can think _oh, my arms look like shit all you want_ , but you're probably the only one thinking like that."

"I don't think your arms look like shit?"

"Exactly," Jay points out. "You're your own person, which means you have to learn how to handle yourself first. And once you do everything seems a little easier, or something. I don't think anything can be easy if your own brain is fighting you the whole time."

He nods. "Alright, then. I think I've got it."

Not wholly, but like Jay said, things like that don't just happen overnight. There's no miracle 180 to be had here. And the thing is, Sabre has accepted that he's probably, almost certainly, going to die.

He doesn't want to, but he _definitely_ doesn't want to die hating himself.

If he's going to die he wants to die being his own person.

* * *

 **Arwen Paoul, 18  
Applicant #1**

* * *

She concedes to let Jahaira drive for just a few hours.

It's a painfully slow process, but it's nice to get a break. She has so many things she could say - quips about her rather luck-luster skills as a driver when there's nothing even around them, quips in _general._

She doesn't know why she doesn't. It's all she's wanted to do for days, clearly, based on how she treated her when she dared to go back and bury Topher.

Right now she just doesn't want to, and she's accepted it. Being a bad person is exhausting.

It had felt like she was good, almost, once upon a time. Back before everything had fallen apart, before Emmi and Myra and the split.

"I want to bury my camera," Jahaira says out of the blue, eyes resolutely focused on the path she's driving, both hands locked white-knuckled around the steering wheel. Arwen remembers feeling like that when she had been taught how to drive as well, a rare moment of weakness.

"File that under _sentence I never thought I would hear_ ," she says drily. "Why?"

"It's a reminder of things I don't want to be reminded of. And you were right. It's just making everything worse. I can't make anything better with it - I'll never be able to."

Jahaira has completely shattered and she's watched it happen - now she's certain of it. Just like there's no turning around her good cop bad cop deal, there's no getting back the Jahaira that existed back at the Institute, laughing and joking, clinging to Myra in the simulation.

"Stop the car, then," she offers, shrugging. It's not as if she really cares. It's not her property, not something she's ever cared about. She didn't take pictures of many things that weren't herself.

Jahaira pulls the car into a small patch of brush, where the earth looks easier to dig into. Not like where they buried Topher. And she won't have to dig such a ridiculously big hole, either, just a shallow little scoop. Enough to get rid of it.

Arwen watches her pull from the backseat, running her fingers over the sleek design and then all of the buttons over the top. It is pretty nice, that she can admit. It seems like a shame to let it go to waste, but that's none of Arwen's business.

"Do you wanna see?"

"See what?" she asks.

"What I've taken the past few days."

To be honest she's surprised the damn thing even has any battery life left. Instead of answering, unwilling to break in that regard, she offers out her hands until Jahaira drops the camera into her open palms. She's seen her turn it on and navigate its settings so many times that it's easy to pull up the full menu of photos.

A lot of it is exactly what she expected to see. A lot of flowers, courtesy of Gideon and his goddamn tendencies to wander off. Lots of that stupid cliff - pretty sunrises and sunsets alike, though. A lot of silhouettes of them, not all the way in focus.

There's a few shots of just her - everyone, really, in some capacity, standing or sitting or laying down alone. She's managed to capture the full range of human emotions in a few dozen pictures of the lot of them.

She stares at one for a heartbeat too long - the one of her and Emmi, just the two of them. Long enough for a lump to rise in her throat.

"Yeah," she agrees, shaking away the encroaching sadness. "Let's bury it."

Jahaira smiles, sadly, as Arwen suspects she's been doing the whole time, feeling exactly the same emotions. She doesn't ask for the camera back, just climbs out of the car and takes the shovel with her as she paces a few feet away from the truck and begins to dig the thing into the earth.

She follows more slowly, hovering just behind as Jahaira scoops out a hole big enough to fit the camera into.

"Alright," Jahaira says. "You wanna do the honors?"

She hesitates, one of the half dozen times she's ever done that in her life, and then steps forward to place the camera in the hole. She almost drops it before she thinks better. They're already burying the thing - no reason to break it as well.

She pulls the shovel from Jahaira's hands, almost goes _ha, just like old times!_ but doesn't, and instead focuses on covering the camera just like she did the body, patting the dirt down on top of it for good measure.

"Anything you wanna say?" she offers, and the smile Jahaira manages to crack isn't as sad as it was before. Her eyes are still the same, filled with a deep, unsettling amount of pain, but it's something.

"If I happen to survive this and get back home, my parents are going to kill me anyway. That was expensive."

Past tense, like it's already gone.

It kind of is, if Jahaira doesn't chicken out and unearth it.

"Very touching," she says, the lie rolling off her tongue easily. "If you happen to survive this and get back home, you can tell them I did it."

Jahaira is still smiling - Arwen actually sees a flash of teeth for a mere second too, before it's gone.

"Can do. Thanks."

She skirts around Arwen, still not close enough to touch, and gets back in the truck. She stares at the little impromptu burial spot for a moment longer, unable to help but linger on what just passed between them.

It felt nice, to say it. Felt nice to have a semi-normal conversation for once.

But she knows that Jahaira isn't surviving, isn't getting home, because that would mean Arwen wouldn't.

And there's no way in hell that's happening.

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17  
Applicant #13**

* * *

Her mom is there.

That's the only reason Emmi knows she's still asleep.

She's been floating in so much darkness for so long, burning from the inside out. Sewed herself up as best she could, stopped the bleeding, but the fever still comes anyway. Sleep is easier when it feels like your body is fighting back against you.

She's seen her once before, distantly terrified that she had come to collect her like some sort of reaper, but she had just stood over her, watchful. Emmi had closed her eyes, as much as one who was already asleep _could_ close their eyes. She was safe, for the time being with her mother watching over her. Her fever-slow, muddled brain knew that much.

"It's time to wake up, sweetheart," she says. Her voice is nothing like Emmi remembers.

She's certain she only truly knows her mother's face because of pictures, anyway. It was so long ago, she was so young...

"It's going to hurt," she mumbles, planting her face back in her arm.

"Not as much as you think. It's time to go, Emmi."

"Go _where?"_

"Anywhere else. Anywhere but where you are now. For me."

She looks up, at this woman's slightly unfamiliar face and even more unfamiliar voice. For her, for someone she hasn't known for so long. She has to go somewhere, has to do more than lie here and die. She has to fight like everyone else.

"Okay," she agrees softly, closing her eyes again. "Can do."

She senses her mother's smile, just before she properly wakes up. "I know you can."

Her eyes are so blurred over that when she wakes, for good, she can hardly see at all. For one irrational second she fears she's gone blind, but blinking a few seconds rids it quickly, and she wipes her hand over them for good measure. There's no sweat over her brow.

The fever is gone. Broken, sometime in the night.

And miraculously, she's alive.

It hurts, still, but her mother's words ring true. Not as much as it used to. Her stomach still throbs and pulls, her side less so. The taste of blood is still the thing at the forefront of her mouth and she reaches for the bag without moving, dragging it closer to her. She hasn't eaten in God knows how many days. She tried, a few times. Never kept is down.

She pulls a bag of granola out and shoves an entire handful of her mouth, missing almost half of it but crunching away regardless.

The Sentinels haven't come to kill her, for some reason. She looks at the bracelet, which must still be displaying some sort of tracking information regardless of the damage it took from the fall.

They haven't killed her. She can't take that for granted.

She works through the entire bag of granola and then a water bottle after it, the feeling of uncomfortable fullness an odd one in her stomach. She places a hand over top of it, over where she stuck pins through her own skin to knit some of it back together, and inhales. Exhales.

It hurts, but not enough to keep her down.

She sits up slowly, letting her head spin as much as it damn well wants to, taking another sip of water to calm the sudden turmoil in her stomach. It's still going to be slow going, there's no doubt about that, but she doesn't have to stay here. There's still the object of getting to her feet, but there's no point in that just yet. She takes all of the discarded supplies, spread out in a haphazard heap around the indentation she's practically made in the ground, and one by one puts them all back in the bag.

The pain in her shoulder has been reduced to a dull ache. She carefully unwinds her makeshift sling and stretches out. Not too bad.

She just has to get her legs to work now. They better damn well work, if they're the only truly uninjured part of her.

The wall proves good purchase as always, and she settles on her knees for a few seconds to get used to the feeling, blood rushing back all the way down into her toes. She shifts back and forth - the bandages taped over her stomach and side hold firm, and she can't feel any of her make-shift stitches pulling too much.

There are other words her mother didn't say, but that she can hear anyway. _Take it easy, take it slow._

 _There's no rush._

Emmi gets the feeling there is need for a rush, though. She has no idea how long she's been out, and the bracelet...

There's only twelve of them left. How many were there, when she last fell asleep? So many more, she's certain. She can only imagine the horror that's gone on since she's been out of it, who's still alive out there. Some of the others, maybe. If anyone, Arwen would at least be worth finding. More than worth it.

Okay, that's a goal. A good one.

She just has to get up.

She drags the bag closer to her feet so that she won't have to bend much once she's up and pulls herself to her feet, still using the wall for balance. She wobbles alarmingly for a few seconds, vision spotting with gray and black at the edges. She squeezes her eyes shut, blinks rapidly until they disappear. Once again she presses her hand over the bandages to check them, but there's no fresh blood.

The backpack fits snugly over her shoulders once she's able to get it up off the ground, and it helps to anchor her some when she feels like swaying out of place. She puts the gun in her belt along with the machete, two of the knives alongside it.

When she looks down at them something about it makes her smile - her cracked lips tear open anew, and she tastes blood in her mouth again, but it's worth it.

Emmi's not dead. It doesn't make any sense, but she's not. In fact, she's on her feet, she's armed, she's ready to go.

Her mother won't be coming with her past this point, but that's alright.

She can handle that.

"Thanks, mom," she says to the empty little cavern, towards the blood staining the rocks.

With that, she heads for the exit and starts back up the cliff.

* * *

I know there's still twelve left but there really isn't all that many Game-related chapters left so... take your bets now, I do suppose. Apparently I'm incapable of writing a very long endgame and resort to immediate and terrible murder once about half of them are left.

Anyway.

Until next time.


	31. Kingdom Fall

XXVIII: Day Seven, Evening.

* * *

 **Jahaira Aurelion, 16  
Applicant #23**

* * *

Much to her surprise, she's off picking flowers.

One hobby lost, one hobby gained. Hopefully Gideon would be proud of her, wherever he may be now. If he's even still alive.

It's really strange to think about the people she spent all that time with as just... dead. Most of the people she shared a room with, dead. Myra and Emmi for certain, the possibility of Meris and Jupiter being gone ratcheting up more and more with every passing hour, every number that trickles down on the bracelet.

Today's been calm, though. No one's dead. It's nice to have an even twenty-four hours where apparently nothing bad has happened, at least not that they have proof of.

She reaches out with the flat of her shoe to poke out at a cactus. "Can we eat cactus, do you think?"

"Cacti," Arwen corrects. "Try and find out. I reckon you'll get the spines stuck in your tongue, though, and that doesn't sound too fun."

No, it doesn't. She messes with it for a few more seconds, nearly knocking the fat pink flowers and closed buds at the top clear off. There's not much else around that's capable of growing from the rock, save for a few stems topped with withered yellow flowers. She doesn't know if they're safe to eat either. That's where Gideon would be coming in handy.

She drops two of them over Arwen's folded knees, the bright yellow ones.

"Are those good to eat?" Arwen asks flatly.

She shrugs. "I think so? They don't look harmful."

"Are you intending for me to be the guinea pig?"

Well... not in as many words, really. Jahaira really does think they're safe. Her brain as of late hasn't been the most reliable thing though because of everything that's happened, though, so she'd rather her try it out first. She really doesn't have any desire to die via poisonous, unassuming flower.

Arwen doesn't break eye contact when she shoves half the stem in her mouth and rips it off with her teeth, crunching down for a few thorough bites. Her face screws up.

"This tastes like shit."

"Are you implying the other ones didn't?"

"No, but this one especially," she insists, although she swallows it and then stuffs the withered petals in her mouth along in it, getting those down even faster. "Guess you'll see soon if they're poisonous or not. If I drop dead, don't eat them."

If Arwen dropped dead because Jahaira unintentionally made her eat something poisonous, then she'd probably _want_ her dead. Arwen would come back from the great beyond to shove the flowers in Jahaira's mouth herself with her ghostly hands, if she didn't do it first once she realized how alone she was out here in the middle of nowhere.

Truly that's the one thing that's keeping her from taking any action against Arwen. The longer she waits, too, the more the hostility seems to die down. At first she had felt so much sadness, so much budding anger inside herself that she was certain one of them would have been dead by now. In fact, she would have bet money on it. The two of them weren't supposed to survive this long _together_.

Jahaira finishes picking the few flowers she can see in the vicinity and then plops down in front of Arwen in the dirt. She's picking at the dirt underneath her formerly well-manicured nails, the little flicking sound the only thing Jahaira can hear other than the crickets far off in the distance, her own breathing.

"Well, I think you're safe," she decides a few minutes later. Arwen hums under her breath and doesn't look up from her task. For a second Jahaira almost considers doing the same - her nails are filthy, along with virtually every other part of her, but she doesn't see any point. It's only going to get worse. There's no changing that now, and cleaning herself up a bit won't fix it.

She starts on one of the flowers herself - Arwen is right, it does taste like absolute shit, sharp and bitter against her tongue, like something that was left in the fridge for weeks beyond it's expiry date.

It's food, though, and her stomach has been crying out for anything of proper sustenance for days now.

At least they have the water. They'd be dead without it.

Maybe that would be better, easier, but she's too scared of the thought to properly confront it.

"Where do you think we would be now if Myra and Emmi hadn't gotten into that fight?" she asks. Arwen's eyes flick up to hers, leaving the tragic state of her nails.

"Does it matter?"

"I guess not. I was just wondering."

"I'm not sure we'd all still be one happy family, but in the very least I think more of us would be alive. I don't think it would have taken very long for all of the duos to go their separate ways. But Gideon and Jupiter had each other, and our other halves bit the dust, so we got stuck together."

"It would be nice," she says quietly. "If more of us were still alive."

"Try telling that to the Sentinels," Arwen invites. "I'm sure they think the exact opposite in that regard."

Probably. They didn't let them loose out here to be happy with the amount of them left at any given time. Half of them in what, a week, though? That's a pretty high number for a bunch of kids that had no idea what they were getting themselves into. The simulation was different, just a bit of fun... this is real life and death here, and there's no getting out of it.

Nobody was really prepared for this, not even the killers that came out of the simulation.

It was different back then. You could screw up and still have what you wanted afterwards like nothing at all changed. You could kill and die and come back from it all in the same minute, just like that.

That's not the case anymore.

* * *

 **Percius Marigold, 17  
Applicant #2**

* * *

He feels like a little kid that's afraid of the dark.

As soon as the sun starts to go down he begins to panic, well and truly. Last night was different, last night he was still caught in the haze of killing Verity and had sat with his head on his knees between two boulders until the sun came up, refusing to open his eyes.

Now he was out in the mountains, alone, the sun going down.

And there's a building right in front of him. A big one.

He nearly falls down the mountainside in his haste to get in before the sun fully sets. He's not afraid of the dark, really, because that's stupid, first of all, and unlikely as hell. He just doesn't want to be out here alone anymore. At least once he's inside he can hide himself away for the night until the sun comes back up. As stupid as that sounds, it's safer that way.

He trips over several of the rocks and large boulders all the way to the front gate and practically hurls himself across the courtyard to the first door that he sees, two big ones that creak and groan when he parts them to step into the front hall.

The setting sun is turning everything odd shades of red and gold, the already dark interior seeming to light up with a little something before it goes dark for the night.

It had never crossed his mind until right now that other people might be in here as well. It's a huge place by the looks of it, big enough to hide at least one other person or group. Hell, this could be the place where the Sentinels have been camping out. Although not the most well put together it's more intact than anything else he's seen out in the valley.

With that thought in mind he takes a few slow steps down the hall, brandishing the tomahawk in one hand and the pickaxe with the other. He feels like he's absolutely insane at this point, the pinnacle of someone who deserves to be locked the fuck up. That's what they do to cold-blooded murderers, especially of a thirteen year old. Put them away.

She had lunged at him first, is how he's justifying it. She was going to kill him because of the suspicions she had been harboring that he was going to do it first.

And he hadn't been, not until that moment. He had told her the truth.

If he ever got to tell someone that - her parents, the rest of her family, any of the public, they certainly wouldn't care. They would just care that he killed her at all when she hadn't technically done anything but follow the rules.

The way he talks about rules makes it well and truly sound like the Hunger Games. There's no difference, really. He's watched someone die, multiple someones, has killed someone else in return. He's burned and starved and been dehydrated, has had trouble sleeping through the night and wonders with every step and turn what awful thing is going to happen next. He jumps at every sound, can't keep his eyes from betraying his fear even though there's no one around to see it.

He steps very carefully past the broken chandelier, avoiding the worst of the glass. He can't avoid it all, though, can't see properly to do so, and winces at the sound of it crunching and breaking further under his shoes.

If someone is in here, they're going to have heard the door open. You'd have to be deaf not to.

Percy doesn't care. He'll lock himself in the first closet he finds and not come out until the morning if that's what he needs to do. Whoever else is here, if they are, can have the rest of the place. They can leave each other alone.

He's in the process of darting up the stairs when he hears footsteps, and in a split second decision bolts up the rest of them instead of going back down and fleeing outside.

He doesn't want to go back outside. He doesn't want to die.

He's not sure if he wants to kill anyone else, either.

Depending on who it is, though...

God, why is he thinking like that?

He passes a few closed doors as he hurries down the hallway, keeping his feet as light as he can, telling himself not to look behind him. He thinks the footsteps were up here with him, but who really knows, with his state of mind. It's not as if he's thinking all that clearly right about now, hasn't been since the first day if he's being honest.

Hell, he probably didn't have a good state of mind ever. He came here to follow a guy he had a ridiculously bad crush on.

He was set up to fail this from the beginning.

Finally he finds a room with an open door, appearing empty other than a few pieces of old furniture, and he throws himself inside, flattening himself against the backside of the door. They'll have expected him to close the door, so they probably won't even bother looking in here. If they'll just go away, then he can find a proper hiding spot.

None of this needs to happen.

The footsteps are coming closer, though, or so he thinks. Why are they looking for him in the darkness of the interior? It has to be one of the Sentinels, no one else would be fucking crazy enough to do this. No one else is a hunter.

They're definitely coming closer, though. He holds his breath, keeps himself completely still against the door as he hears the footsteps stop in the hall just outside. He wants to peek, so desperately wants to turn his head to see who it is through the crack, but he finds a point in the wall and keeps his eyes there no matter how much his brain is telling him to do otherwise.

He's not going to look. He can't look.

The footsteps start up again, inching closer to the open doorway. He squeezes his eyes shut as they sound right behind him on the other side of the door. He needs to breathe, but he can't. He'll give himself away, and he can't.

Just go, his brain is screaming. _Just go._

A normal person would have given up by now. It's a Sentinel, it has to be. They're going to kill him; for running, for hiding, for all the crying he's been doing this past week.

And maybe that's what he deserves, but it's not what he wants.

He's still holding onto both weapons. He's going to get one shot before they wheel away and turn it back on him, fierce as they are. One shot will be all he needs if he can get it right - in the neck or the chest or the stomach. Somewhere vital, even if it's not quick. Something that will be enough to keep them down while he runs and hides.

He realizes a second later that they're tracking him, eyes flicking down without moving to the bracelet still fastened around his wrist.

They know exactly where he is. They knew all along.

Oh, fuck it.

He doesn't even take another breath. His head is practically spinning from the lack of oxygen when he lunges out from behind the door. He drops the pickaxe, wraps both hands around the tomahawk and leaps forward. The blade sinks into flesh - there's a sharp, horrified scream. That's not the noise he expected. It's too shrill, too terrified...

He looks up.

It's not a Sentinel.

* * *

 **Jupiter Valentine, 18  
Applicant #9**

* * *

They've been in a lot of pain in their life.

None that quite match up to this.

They see a shadow move just beyond the door, and then the shadow is a person. A person with the weapon.

And the weapon is buried in their stomach.

They see Percy look up, when they scream. His eyes widen, just enough for them to realize it wasn't meant to be like this, he didn't really mean it, he didn't _know._

None of that matters, because they hit the ground with a thump anyway, and the axe comes free from the interior of their stomach with a hard pull. They screamed. Mal will have heard that, certainly. He's going to come running. They didn't even mean to - it was just shock.

They fold their hands over their stomach - there's an alarming amount of blood spilling out and soaking their shirt.

"Fuck," Percy says. "Fuck, fuck, I didn't mean—"

There's a harsh noise as the weapon that he buried in their stomach falls into the ground and then another, just after that. The sound of his knees hitting the ground is softer but they wince regardless. His hands are fluttering above over their stomach like he's searching for something to do, muttering profanities under his breath, the words not able to come out fast enough.

"I didn't mean it," he breathes. "Fuck, I didn't know it was you, I thought..."

They know what he thought; that no one would be following him around, looking for him, unless they meant him harm.

He didn't know. They believe that.

"It's okay," they force out. "It's okay."

Percy shakes his head and finally his hands settle over theirs across the wound in their stomach, pushing down. They clench their teeth together, holding down another scream at the fresh wave of pain that radiates all over their stomach and practically up their throat, the threat of choking on the pain suddenly a very real and tangible one.

They hear footsteps, distantly. Percy looks up, alarmed.

"It's okay," they repeat. "It's just Mal, it's—"

Definitely Mal. He comes skidding to a halt in the doorway, barely managing to catch the edge of the frame before he hurtles past it. It hurts too much to turn their neck to watch - they fixate on the ceiling, instead, on what little bit of Percy they can see as he leans back. Although his hands are still folded over theirs, keeping pressure on the wound, he's wary.

No, he's terrified. There's a difference.

In a sudden fit of movement Percy gets ripped away from them, on the floor one second and being dragged up and away from them in the next.

"Mal," they plead. "Mal, don't."

There's a burst of shouting. It's coming from somewhere behind them, but they can't turn their head to look in that direction. Mal's got Percy, now, no doubt about it. Mal's going to kill him because of what he did, and to be honest, they can't exactly blame him for it. That doesn't mean they want to be here when it happens. They don't want Percy to die because of this accident.

"Mal," they say, louder. It takes everything to get it to the volume it climbs to, but the shouting ceases, if only for a second. They're rewarded for their efforts when Mal gives up his reign of terror on Percy and crouches down by their side. He doesn't look at them, though, fixated on the blood no doubt pumping out of their stomach, just not fast enough to outright kill them.

They were never getting a quick death; they've known that for longer than they've been out here.

"What do you want me to do?" he asks, and they're more than alarmed when his voice shakes just a little.

"Don't kill him."

"You can't tell me not to do that."

"Well, I am," they insist. "Don't, please. He didn't know, he didn't mean it."

He looks beyond aggravated at that but they're not surprised in the slightest when he listens, at least for the time being. He won't worsen the already-skyrocketing distress going on in this room if they ask him not to.

It's once they're gone that's problematic. Who knows what will happen then.

Percy's footsteps are rapid, pacing somewhere to their right. Mal takes their hand in his, folded over their stomach, but doesn't press quite as hard as Percy was. There's probably no fixing this, or maybe there's just no point. They made it a lot longer than the doctors said they were going to. They made it here, they made friends.

They did pretty well, all things considered.

"I thought I knew what dying felt like," they say, kind of stupidly, and the distress on Mal's face intensifies. "Maybe I'm not dying."

Mal reaches across from them and picks up the tomahawk, weighing it in his hands. Percy doesn't even seem to notice. "Maybe."

Maybe not, but it hurts nonetheless. Not as much as they expected. Maybe they have a certain pain tolerance after everything, after the long stays in the hospital and the chemo, all of the injections and experimental drugs.

They're glad it was them and not Mal that came looking.

"You have to promise me something," they say. "Look at me. Don't kill him."

If they're not truly dying, they're still talking like that's what's going on. It's easy to accept it after all these years. Like they said, they expected to be gone long before this moment. At least they got a few days of something resembling a normal human life.

"I'm serious," they insist, while Percy starts up swearing again. "Don't."

Mal hasn't promised either way, and when Percy keeps up at it he looks up, towards where Jupiter still can't crane their neck enough to see. They would never expect Mal to promise because that's not who he is. They don't want lies in what could very well be their last few minutes.

"What?" Mal snaps, finally. "God, shut up, would you? Have you not made things bad enough?"

"A car just pulled up," he says wildly. "Fuck, yep, that's definitely a Sentinel - oh, God, is that her? Jesus christ."

Mal doesn't move from their side, much as they assume he wants to check himself.

"You should probably go," they say quietly.

"And what about you?"

"If I'm still alive when they get up here, they'll kill me. It's okay."

"That is not fucking okay," Mal hisses. "You think they're going to go easy on you?"

Probably not, but there's really no alternative. Percy's not going to do anything now, not even if they asked him. Really there's only one option, and...

"Mal," they say quietly. From far below there's a little burst of distant shouting. It appears that Percy's not lying to distract them after all. He doesn't move for the door - they're in the way. They don't think Mal would let him leave right now anyway, not unless it was over his own dead body.

"I don't want to," Mal says finally.

"You think I want you to?" they ask. "Not really. Not how I imagined it would go, but..."

They can feel tears gathering in their eyes. This really was not at all what they imagined.

It was something, though. It was certainly something.

"I'd rather it be you over them," they say thickly. "You know that, right?"

Mal nods a little frantically, hand tightening for just a second over theirs. "Yeah, I know."

And that's it. Mal squeezes their hand one last time, and there's a lot of words in that gesture that he would never say aloud. Like they said, they wouldn't expect him to, nor would they want him to. That's not him.

He stands up. He's still got the bat, but he has the tomahawk, too. Percy hasn't asked for it back, if he's even noticed.

The blade comes swinging down. Maybe they're imagining it, but they think Mal closed his eyes, just before he does it.

Suddenly there's a lot more pain, right in the center of their chest. Oh, there we go. That's worse. That's enough to kill. Mal skirts around their legs, though they can barely see over the next few seconds. Their vision is fading - all they see is him stepping away, so far that they can no longer see him, and he doesn't turn back.

There's words exchanged, things they can't make out. Then an awful, sickening howl of pain that's nearly enough to make them open their eyes one last time.

Well, they tried. They shouldn't have even bothered trying to make Mal listen in the first place.

They really want to open their eyes, truly, to at least see what Mal has done before they're gone for good, but they can't. They're too heavy to open. It's like one of the nurses sticking something in their IV all over again, the comfortable weight of darkness settling back over them.

This time, there's no reopening.

It's easy to accept it.

* * *

 **Gideon Mallory, 16**  
 **Applicant #20**

* * *

His whole body feels sort of numb by the time he gets down the stairs and to the back door.

He doesn't even notice the blood dripping from the end of the tomahawk until he's outside, the color more obviously stark against the pale dirt than the darker interior.

The headlights from the car out front are illuminating even the area near the well. They know it's just him, now - he's the only one left to track. Once he was done with Percy he didn't see any need to stay up there with the two of them, looking at what he's done. It seemed like the logical answer to head outside; some would say the logical option would be to _run_ , far and very fast, but it's taking everything he has to just drag his feet outside through the dirt.

The bracelet's down to ten. Funny how that works. It'll be single digits after him.

If they kill him, anyway. They might leave him alone because of what he's done in the past few minutes.

Percy didn't even put up a fight, just sort of accepted it like how Mal is accepting it too, right about now. He doesn't care about running. He doesn't want to.

He's just really tired of everything. Has been for a long time, really.

Jupiter wouldn't want him to call it quits, nor Connie or his parents. No one who really cares.

But they're not here right now, either dead or several hundred miles away, unable to stop it. They probably wouldn't be able to stop it even if they were; once Mal got an idea in his head it wasn't easy to put a stop to it. Take Percy, for example.

Someone approaches from the side of the building and he leans up against the well, nearly dropping the tomahawk. He's not even sure where he left the bat in the room upstairs, but he doesn't really care either.

Not like he needs it.

The woman approaching is decidedly not Carnelia, which seems like a small blessing. Judging by Percy's reaction she's somewhere in the vicinity. It's the one that was standing at her side in that room in the first place, the dark-haired woman that holds herself with nearly as much inspiring terror as Carnelia does.

So that's not good, probably. But it makes him feel a little bit better that he let Jupiter go, rather than let this woman have them.

Little victories.

"Hey," he says, voice drooping with an exhaustion that even his legs don't quite feel.

" _Hey_ ," she laughs upon approach. "Rough day?"

"Pretty much." That about sums it up. And now it ends with him half-joking with a Sentinel who's probably come to finish off his rough day with a bang. Literally, or not. Hopefully literally, because that will hurt less. He can take pain but he'd rather it be quick in the very least.

"Can you make it quick, at least?" he asks aloud.

"What happened to the ever so brave and bold boy who stood up in that room and looked Carnelia Trevall in the eye without blinking?"

"He realized how sick and tired he was, honestly," he admits.

"Of what?"

"Everything."

She laughs again. "Join the club."

"You're not being hunted down and killed," he points out. He sags down to the ground, letting his weapon fall to his side with a thunk in the dirt. She inches a bit closer and takes the gun out of her belt. He wants her to be as close as possible. Like he said, quick.

"You'd be surprised," she settles on, eyes a little troubled. The look disappears as quickly as he catches it, but it causes his eyebrows to knit together all the same. Something is going on here, something bigger than he knows. With how tired he is he's not sure it's worth finding out, but his curiosity has always been too strong for his own good. He's too stubborn _not_ to ask.

"Surprised at what?"

"A lot of things."

"How very vague."

"Let's just say I thought you'd have been joining the Sentinel Killers Club right about now, instead of laying down to die. It doesn't become you."

"Because you know what becomes me, right? I don't know you, you don't know me. Let's just leave it at that. Get it over with, please."

She sticks out her hand, a spectacularly large shit-eating grin on her face. "Khia Rhodelle. Nice to meet you."

He stares at it, lets her hand hang in mid-air between them. She's just as stubborn as he is, clearly, refusing to drop it no matter how long he watches it hang there. He'd rather set himself on fire than touch her. She's one of the people that did this to them in the first place, and if he's classified as a monster now then he can only imagine what she is.

No, he doesn't want to imagine.

"Most people introduce themselves back," she explains, hand still extended. "An eye for an eye."

Much to both of their surprises, he starts to laugh. It comes out more manic than he expected, everything in his chest bubbling over in a large fit of hysteria that hits him so hard it feels impossible to stop laughing. She stares at him curiously. Her hand is still there.

"An eye for an eye," he repeats slowly, still breathless from the laughter. "I think a hand for a hand sounds better."

Her lips quirk up. She finds humor in this, in his new saying.

But that's not what he meant, and fortunately for him her hand is still there when his own closes around the tomahawk's handle to pull it up once again. The humor in her face changes to something more mirthless. Damn right it does.

He doesn't even get up - he shoots forward and swings the tomahawk down over her arm.

It cuts into her wrist, all the way through. Her wail is piercing, the blood that splatters all over his sprawled out legs practically burning. The detached hand that bounces into his knees and rolls off into the dirt doesn't really look so much like a hand anymore, when it has no wrist to be attached to. She's not even clutching at her stump of a wrist, letting the blood spurt out.

There's a _bang_ so loud it nearly blows out his ears, a searing pain tucked into the spot just to the left of his breastbone. Right, the gun. He forgot about that for a second.

Oh well.

That's all he wanted to do, before he died.

He can go peacefully now.

* * *

 **Tarquin Vierra, 16  
Applicant #4**

* * *

It took all of eleven minutes. He watched the clock.

Eleven minutes, and three people are dead. Twelve to nine on the bracelet.

It's also in those eleven minutes that he finds an exit.

He spent so long wandering around in the darkness of the mines convinced there wasn't a way out except for the one he came in through, and he had no idea where that was now. He wouldn't even have been able to force himself to go back there, towards where he pushed the body into the deepest crevasse he could find.

They had still known, though. He was wearing his clothes, his mask, had all his belongings.

Of course they had known.

He had seen others, too, since his encounter with the girl. It felt like they were watching him at this point. One had followed him for a long while, saying only _this must be the one Robin was talking about_ but he hadn't done anything else. Just followed, and then disappeared when Tarquin wasn't paying attention, as if he melted back into the walls.

They're toying with him, he's certain.

So he finds an exit and pauses before he steps outside, glancing back into the tunnel. There's no one lurking there. Certainly they're not just going to let him go, not after what that girl said to him. They play games. Kill people, like he has. If they really killed Noelani, they may have killed others too. There's no way their curiosity about him outweighs their urge to get it over with and kill him.

He makes it twenty yards or so over the wide outcropping of rock before he hears something, coming from just in front of him. He's in the heart of the mountains, now, can't see what could or could not be hiding behind one of the rocks like he's sheltering behind right now. Carefully, silently, he pulls an arrow out of the quiver and holds it to the bow, not drawing just yet. He doesn't want to kill someone like that again, but if they're going to kill him...

He might have to. All he'll have to do is pretend he's someone else.

There's another little breath, a sound like a whimper. It sounds almost like an injured animal, but distinctly human.

Ten feet in front of him, a hand creeps over the edge of a boulder. He freezes, raising the bow. The hand is clean of blood, covered in a thick layer of grime and dirt, struggling to find purchase as if they're trying to stand after having fallen.

He recognizes the dark sweater at their wrist, holding his breath all the same.

"Ria?" he tries, cursing his voice for being so loud, for shaking like a leaf. The hand freezes. He can't see if it's really her, can't dare to hope that it is.

It can't be. But it might.

He strides forward, all caution thrown to the wind. Even his hands aren't so tense anymore on the curve of the bow as he approaches the rock, so desperate for a familiar face. He sees just the edge of blue hair, nearly starts crying at the sight of it, at Ria clinging to the side of a rock like her life depends on it.

She looks him in the eye, sort of. She yelps, takes two huge steps back, and then falls down to the ground.

Right. He sort-of most definitely looks like the boogeyman.

"Ria," he repeats, holding out a hand and crouching down in front of her. She shies backwards, crowding herself up against the rocks that only let her flee a few feet backwards before she's trapped. He drops the bow, fits his hand under the edge of the mask until he can yank it up and off his head, tossing that to the ground as well.

"It's me, it's me," he insists. Her eyes widen and she wipes a hand over them, blinking frantically a few times as if she can't quite accept that it's him.

He knows that feeling.

"Tarquin," she manages, voice a shaky mess. Her whole body is trembling, and he can tell she's still at war with herself, here, wondering if her brain is playing tricks on her, as if he's nothing more than an illusion.

"It's me," he confirms, and she presses her hand over her mouth. He can't help himself, doesn't care just how much she's going to hate him for it - he leans forward and wraps his arms around her, squeezing the life out of her tiny little frame. Much to his surprise he feels her hands grapple back at his arms, holding the two of them together. They're both shaking. He can't tell who's worse.

It doesn't last long, because Ria wrenches herself away with an ugly retch and then throws up onto the rock, nothing more than a bit of bile and water. He grimaces regardless.

"Are you okay?" he asks, because he feels the needs to, hands still outstretched as if she's going to come back into his arms.

"Not... not really," she admits, retching again. "I can't stop, and I can't, I can't really breathe right."

Looking at her now he realizes how awful she looks, possibly more awful than him. Covered in a layer of sweat, shaking, hunched over and clutching at her stomach like something more is about to come up. Her foot, wedged nearly underneath his legs, is bare of any shoe, swollen to twice its normal size. It's so swollen that he almost can't make out the thin lines of blood running down her ankle and to the base of her foot, stemming from two tiny, little holes.

"Tell me that's not what I think it is," he pleads.

"I think— I think it was a rattlesnake?" she guesses, finally sitting back up.

"How long ago?"

"No idea. My vision's all... wonky and I can't even think straight. A while?"

A while, yeah, judging by the state of her. Not too long, or she'd most certainly be dead. He doesn't know how snakebites work, really, that's not something you worry about in the Capitol, but antivenom exists for a reason. They've made leaps and bounds on it in the Capitol - they can treat people in an hour, if the rarity so occurs.

But they're not in the Capitol right now.

"Can you walk?"

"Probably not," she says. "I sort of fell here in the first place. Are you okay?"

"Not really?" he says. "There are people living down in the mines, like a dozen of them. I... I killed one of them but they knew it was me and not him, and I've been trying to get out, but..."

"But what?"

"They might... they might have something down there. One of them said they had medical supplies - they could have antivenom, maybe? Or something to slow the spread. I could go check."

He knows where it is, vaguely. He remembered where in case he ever got desperate enough to head there, no matter what he would see.

"I think they might've killed Mel," Ria says, voice still struggling and shaking with every word. "You shouldn't go back down there."

"They killed Noelani, too," he tells her. "And God knows who else. But they haven't killed me yet - I don't know why. If I could find something that could save your life, then I don't care if I have to go back down there. I'll risk it."

They don't even know each other, really. He tried. She didn't want to.

And now it's up to him to save her life. He who got abandoned, certainly, left alone to die.

He's not dead yet, which means he still has time to accomplish something.

"Just stay here," he orders. "Take it easy, lay low. I'll come back whether or not I find something. I'm telling you, don't move - if it's someone other than me you'll know it."

She tugs herself out of his grip and rummages through her bag with weak hands, shoving things out of the way until she pulls a large tin can out.

"Take this."

"What is it?"

"A bomb," she says. "I think. I'm not sure it'll work - I've been trying to finish it over the last few hours. But I can give you the matches, and if something bad happens, you can use it."

He take it from her, clutching it as gently as he possibly can. It hardly looks like anything at all, but he doesn't dare to move it. Ria is smart, that much he knows. Smarter than most people. While she may not be aware of it's power, he's pretty certain that if she set out to do something she'll have finished it, regardless of her state of mind.

He pushes things out of the way in his own bag until he can nestle the bomb safely inside, wrapped up so it will move as little as possible. He needs to be careful, but he also needs to worry. There's no telling how bad Ria could get in the hours it'll take him to go down there and get back up. That's if he survives, if they don't find him and kill him first.

And he's going to have to go into what she called the dark room, where Noelani could still be...

But Noelani's dead. He has someone very alive right in front of him right now, and he could keep her alive if he goes.

So he's going to go.

* * *

This one hurt, ngl. They sort of all hurt from here on out in some way or other. Oops.

I'm going to be actively traveling or in a completely different timezone for the next two updates, so if they're a little off-kilter no need to be alarmed. I'll still be getting them up sometime on each Saturday, but I have no guarantees on the time. If you're on Discord with me I'll still shout it out on there, I'm sure. I'm not sure however that I'll be able to get to the blog until I get back, either - not a huge fan of screwing with that on mobile. I'll try my best, though.

Hope everyone is having a good summer. Let me know what your thoughts are.

Until next time.


	32. The Dark Room

XXIX: Day Seven, Night.

* * *

 **Soran Faerber, 18**  
 **Applicant #8**

* * *

His body feels sort of dead, but his mind isn't.

That's unfortunate.

He wakes up because his hip is digging uncomfortably into the ground and he rolls over and nearly into Icarus, who's apparently asleep beside him. His whole body protests the movement, his side and chest throbbing and aching. It even hurts to breathe, though it's not so painful that he can't. It's just slow, takes more effort. His knee aches when he sits up and wiggles his legs - can't remember anything even happening to his knee, but there's that.

He can still wiggle his two certainly broken fingers and stupidly puts weight on them to push himself to his knees and up the wall, using it as a support.

It's sort of stuffy in here, and he can't really see.

Outside he goes.

He makes it a few alarmingly wobbly steps before Icarus chimes in. "Where are you going?"

"Outside," he maintains. "You don't have to follow me."

Two more steps and he hears the clear sound of Icarus getting to his feet. There was no point in even bothering with that - he just wasted energy even saying it. He doesn't get very far once he's outside after nearly tripping down the single step that leads in, anyway. It's just as fucking dark out here. Still no idea where the fuck he took them.

It seems a little easier to breathe, though. He leans up against the wall and inhales, again, ignoring the burst of pain in his chest, clutching a hand to his side.

He can sense Icarus hovering, see him when he turns his head a fraction of an inch lurking in the doorway like some sort of creepy, watchful guardian.

"Can I help you?"

"What are you doing?"

"Standing here."

"Why?" Icarus asks slowly, although he stays put. It's as if half of him is almost trying to listen, for once.

He shrugs and that hurts, too, so much so that he struggles to keep his face blank.

"Well, when you're done, there's a first-aid kit in the bag. We should be able to stitch some of you up, if some of you needs stitching."

" _We?"_

"Well, that was me sort of implying that you're doing the stitching while I supervise, because fuck that, first of all, and also my mother tried to teach me how to sew when I was younger and I was terrible at it."

"You really never stop talking," he observes, beginning his slow, careful crawl back to the front door. "That's not even what I was talking about."

"I _know,_ " Icarus snaps, although it's halfhearted. "What else do you want me to say?"

He shrugs again, and _fuck_ does it hurt. He inches up as close as he can get to Icarus without fully bowling him over and tries to skirt past him, but Icarus grabs him by the wrist and holds him there, crushing his painfully broken fingers in his grip.

"Ow," he says exaggeratedly, and Icarus' grips softens, which just kind of leaves him there holding Soran's hand, effectively. It's as awkward as you could imagine it being, but it's kind of nice in the sense that it was expected. If it wasn't awkward he'd be even more weirded out than he already is.

"You appear to be holding my hand," he tells him, and Icarus looks down, like he wasn't even aware.

But oh, he was. And he definitely still is.

Icarus is very easy to figure out and indefinitely confusing in the same beat. Soran can't really read him right now, though that may be the incessant pounding in his head and general blood-loss still making him a tad woozy. He can't really tell the difference. It's certainly a good time for Icarus to take advantage of the situation, to figure things out with Soran standing right in front of him. He can't be fucked to fight back right now.

He'd probably get his ass handed to him anyway, and that would be more embarrassing than Icarus having to save his life in the first place.

"I don't understand how I can hate you and like you at the same time," Icarus says finally, confusing creasing his brow.

"I feel that on a level you don't even understand. It's a part of our charm."

Icarus laughs, studying the ground between his shoes. "Our charm. Right."

That's a thing they have, a thing they share, oddly enough. Some weird twisted part of Soran doesn't want to see him dead, doesn't want to die either but then it'll be all over. Icarus probably wouldn't last without him anyway, as terrible as it is to admit. They've come a long way since that first day. It only took six more to figure things out.

And Icarus doesn't really look like he's figured it all out yet.

"Alright, let go of me," he insists. "Get this first-aid kit that apparently exists, would you?"

He waits a second, tugging his hand out of Icarus' piss poor grip when he refuses, and pushes his way inside. Icarus grabs at him again - this motion is filled with just a tad more determination, and Soran pretty much knows what's about to happen based on that action alone, unsurprised when he spins around and Icarus' lips land against his.

What is surprising is how calm it is, an almost eerie sort of gentleness... nothing like the first time.

They really got this backwards. That's not surprising either, knowing the two of them.

He's too tired to fight back, but he also wouldn't. Icarus is holding his damn hand again - he gets the feeling that's going to be a _thing_ whether he likes it or not. The other hand is curled around the side of his neck, which is burning with pain now that he's focusing on it, probably from nearly getting choked to death. Icarus is being gentle, though, like he knows, thumb pressing in just barely against the edge of his jaw.

He pulls back, getting no more than an inch. "Oh, so you _like like_ me, huh? I get it now."

"God, you're the worst," Icarus says, but there's a color to his cheeks that wasn't there before - it's great that Soran notices these things now, clearly, when he never noticed them all that much before.

"I take pride in that achievement," he informs him. "Now seriously, where's the fucking first-aid kit?"

* * *

 **Percius Marigold, 17  
Applicant #2**

* * *

So, he's alive.

He also has one less hand than he did a few hours ago.

 _Problematic_ isn't a strong enough word to describe that, but he isn't sure there's one in his vocabulary that will fit. If there is, it's escaping him.

That could be because he's almost blacked out half a dozen times since Gideon chopped his fucking hand off, since he said _if I can't kill you, they can't either_ and that was all that came out of his mouth before he grabbed Percy by the arm, raised the tomahawk—

He nearly throws up just thinking about it.

Once Gideon had left he had crawled into the wardrobe in the next room, ripping down everything from the hangers to wrap around the stump that was his wrist. He hadn't sat there for very long. He had heard screaming, a gunshot. Then nothing, save for the car driving off a few minutes later. He had come tumbling out of the wardrobe, landing on his stumpy arm, and nearly blacked out for the second time.

He's lying there, still, the pickaxe crushed beneath him, cradling his arm to his chest, when he hears the sound of another car.

God, he just can't catch a fucking break, can he?

He either wants to murder everyone left or just die himself, he's not sure. It would be easier if Gideon had just killed him. That would have been nice. It's not like he got the chance to ask, really.

He drags himself to the window and hauls himself up. It's not like the nicer cars the Sentinels had - it's an old, beaten down pick-up truck.

Other applicants, then.

He can't decide if that's a good thing or not.

He stuffs his wrist under his good arm because it hurts less, as little as that makes sense, and scoops up the pickaxe before he wobbles his way back out into the hall. He could run, maybe, but he's not sure he can really do that without blacking out. It hurts like nothing else has hurt before. Arguably worse than seeing Nic die, because at least he could go to sleep and forget it had happened for a while. He's not sure he could fall asleep feeling like this.

His pace is nothing impressive. He hears the car doors slam shut, at least two of them, and then voices floating up from the first floor.

But hey, at least they could kill him, maybe. Or he could kill them.

Like he said, he really hasn't yet decided. His thought processes are shot to hell.

There's someone standing at the bottom of the stairs, just one. They're not facing him, looking towards the sound of the voices... there's someone else here?

That complicates things.

He considers backing up, but that just draws things out and he's no longer in the mood for that. Life or death, he doesn't really care. The voices are getting louder - two girls, at least, by the sound of it. And he thought he was loud. They're making a racket, alerting both him and whoever's standing at the bottom of the stairs to their exact location.

Finally, from his position at the edge of the balcony, he sees two silhouettes enter the great room at the bottom of the stairs, pausing suddenly when they notice whoever's standing at the bottom of the stairs.

It's a very quiet situation, surprisingly.

"I know you're up there, too," the person says, and he goes still. "I knew someone was still here."

Ah, not another applicant then.

That's a Sentinel, one that they left behind for this exact reason.

Like he said. _Problematic._

It's hard to make them out, but he knows one of the girls is Jahaira, and judging by the purple the other must be Arwen. The only other person with purple hair got murdered out back not long ago - he knows that for certain.

Everyone's trying to make a decision right now. He can't even begin to think of what he _should_ do. The woman's got a gun, and that's just what he can see. Jahaira and Arwen haven't moved, but they will.

Just what way, is the question.

She raises the gun. Jahaira takes off, a second later, back down the hall. Arwen dives out of the way as the gun goes off, slamming into the plaster behind where she had just been standing. She's not going to get the chance to run like Jahaira just did, no thought behind the action. Clearly there's very little loyalty there, not like Gideon's for Jupiter. There's really none at all.

Arwen lurches to her feet, grabbing the edge of the table in order to fling herself a few paces to the left, away from where the gunshots are hitting. Percy makes a decision, then. He's not going to be able to run either.

He didn't want to kill Jupiter, not Verity either, really.

But this woman is not either of them.

His wrist throbs in agony as he tears down the stairs after the two of them. Gideon took the fucking tomahawk, too, leaving him with this damn pickaxe like he has a single clue what to do with it. There's a shout of pain, another gunshot that shatters something like glass. The two of them are closer together now, no sign of Jahaira coming back. That's real nice.

The woman turns at his approach, fires a shot that just barely misses his head as he dives to the ground. His arm screams in protest - he wraps his good one around her knees and pulls until she falls to the ground half on top of him.

He didn't really have a plan beyond that.

Her elbow collides with his nose, pain bursting beyond his vision, causing his eyes to well with painful tears. She catches him in the jaw, too, and his head spins around and cracks into the floor. The pickaxe gets ripped out of his hand - that's strange, considering she's apparently punching him with both hands that he can see. Where did the gun even go? Did it fall out of her hand when he tackled her?

A shadow stands above them - oh, Arwen is still here, right.

And she's got his pickaxe. That makes a lot more sense.

They're twisting and turning, not still for more than a second at a time Arwen buries the pickaxe in the back of the woman's shoulder, all the way through, and it cuts into his upper arm as it passes through. There's no indication that it hurts her at all, despite his lesser injury hurting a whole hell of a lot. They're not really human, that he understands, but it's still annoying.

They roll onto their sides. She catches him in the face again. The pickaxe slams into the floor between them, narrowly missing both his side and the woman's.

Something pushes into his ribs - he recognizes the shape of it before she punches him so hard his vision whites out, and he fumbles for the gun tucked under him with his only remaining hand even though he can't see, closing his fingers around the grip and yanks it free from his own crushing weight.

There's a louder shout, right in his face. Arwen's connected again, this time right below the woman's hip.

He grapples still for the gun, no idea how it really works beyond his fingers closing down on the trigger.

He presses down. The gun goes off. He didn't really expect it to, for some reason.

The bullet hits her directly in the center of the face.

He closes his eyes at the moment of impact, feeling blood spatter all over his face, his hand, the floor. Everything around him, really. His ears are ringing from the proximity, and there's a soft thud as the body rolls over from the momentum, face-up.

"Fuck," Arwen announces. He rolls over himself, allowing his eyes to open when he only has the ceiling to look at. She sags to the ground at his feet - her chest is bleeding, that can't be good. He can't tell what it's from, but what else would it be, other than a bullet? Can you survive a bullet to the chest once the adrenaline fades off?

Maybe. He doesn't have a clue.

"She fucking left," Arwen manages, her voice labored. The pain is evident without looking at her. "That bitch, I knew she would—"

He ignores the rest of it and rolls over onto his knees and _hand_ , blocking out the rapid spin of his brain in his skull as he gets to his feet.

"What are you doing?" Arwen asks. Her voice already doesn't sound so good, a little weaker... he doesn't want to imagine why.

"Going after her," he decides. He keeps the gun in hand this time, even though Arwen has since abandoned the pickaxe on the ground next to the body. Jahaira can't have gotten far - the car keys are abandoned on the floor where the two of them were standing. She could have run like he was considering, but again, not that far.

He can find her. He has to do something or he'll just shut down, and Arwen doesn't look like she's going to be doing much of anything, possibly ever again.

He leaves her in the main room, wondering how long she has left if she's that grievously injured. If he does find Jahaira, if he kills her, will Arwen even be alive at that point to know?

He doesn't really know Arwen anyway, so it's not like he's doing it for her. Why is he doing it, then? Because his brain is fucked beyond repair? Because three people have already died here tonight and he just doesn't care anymore? He's not sure he's cared much at all, since that first day, frightening as it is to admit. Nic was the moral compass, the goodness in the world. The goodness in everything.

Down the hall he goes. He hears a terrified chatter before he gets that far at all. Why would she have stopped so soon, when she knew what was going on back in the main room?

He turns the next corner. Jahaira is standing there, most definitely the source of the incessant babbling, hands moving around frantically as if she has to clue how to keep them all.

There's someone else at the end of the hall too, watching her with an unreadable look in her eyes. Emmi.

He's not sure what to make of that. Isn't sure he even wants to know.

It just never ends, does it?

* * *

 **Arwen Paoul, 18  
Applicant #1**

* * *

She's in quite a bit of pain.

That probably has something to do with the bullet lodged in her chest.

If she just acted the same as always, like it was inconsequential, it shouldn't hurt so much. It wasn't working like it usually did, though. It fucking hurt.

Percy disappears and not a minute later there's more shouting, but this time something is different about it. Something familiar, she can't but her finger on it through the pain but there's something there she can almost recognize...

She struggles her way to her feet, grabbing at everything she can to pull herself along down the hall towards the source of the noise. Every step gets worse, feels more impossible. Her legs are turning to lead the more the blood soaks through her shirt, pulsating away down her stomach. There's way too much of it to be survivable that close to her heart.

Oh, well. At this point she just wants to know Jahaira is going too, as terrible as it sounds.

There's another gunshot and she flinches, despite herself. For some reason there's a difference in her head between Percy shooting a Sentinel and Percy shooting Jahaira. It just doesn't make as much sense.

It wouldn't have made any sense a week ago, but here they are.

She's about to walk in on it, she can tell. She sees Percy first, just sort of awkwardly standing there, the gun hanging limply from his only remaining hand, as she's noticed. That's sort of disturbing. What's more disturbing is that he's not doing anything, as if he's on the fringe and just sort of observing whatever else could possibly be going on in front of him.

She rounds the corner properly and considers, outright, just sitting down right where she is.

Jahaira is bleeding, trying to avoid a swing. Arwen can't get the name out through the pain, but it's on her lips.

 _Emmi._

She grapples for the wall and then her legs give way, finally, and she slides to the ground. Percy reaches out a hand as if to catch her but doesn't move close enough to do so, standing there mesmorized. Watching the two of them go at it.

 _Emmi is_ _alive_. And Arwen is going to die.

That seems slightly cruel.

There's another gunshot. Jahaira screams, collapses as a bullet tears through the lower part of her shin. It seems vicious, too vicious for what she'd say Jahaira deserves, but she's not sure about any of them anymore. Maybe they all deserve the worst possible sort of outcome except for Emmi, it seems, who survived the survivable and is standing here in front of her.

Two seconds later and Jahaira is dead. It's anticlimactic in Arwen's very slow-processing brain, she tries to track the movement of the next bullet and only sees Jahaira hit the floor on her back, blood pouring from a wound in her neck. Almost as much, or maybe more, than how much she's bleeding. She's not sure in the darkness, without being able to really see.

Emmi's figure is blurry, walking awkwardly. It's both her vision and Emmi's own stature, clutching at her stomach when she crouches down by Arwen's side.

"Am I hallucinating?" she asks dazedly, and one of Emmi's hands cup the side of her face. She smiles.

"I almost wish," she says. "I almost wish you were."

She hums in agreement and lets her head slump back against the wall. Emmi is still holding her firm, Emmi who is still alive by some sort of miracle.

"How?"

"What can I say, I'm unkillable," Emmi announces, although there's no humor in her face. "How much pain are you in?"

"A lot," she admits, almost finding it stupid before she realizes no one here cares. Back home an admittance of pain is weakness; almost everything is in their world. That's what she's been taught since she was young. You put on a face when you wake up and you don't let anyone see the emotions underneath.

She's too tired to hide it all right now.

"What do you want me to do?" Emmi asks.

"Stay alive," she mumbles.

"I'll try my best."

Arwen hums and focuses on the stroke of her thumb over the side of her cheek, Emmi this close to her, alive and mostly whole, it appears. She wants to know what happened, why things had to be this way.

She doesn't have the energy to ask. She's not sure Emmi has the energy to tell her, either.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs.

"For what?"

"For not being here sooner."

"I was the one that was going to protect you, remember?" she manages. That seems so long ago now, a distant memory that seems to be fading away faster and faster by the second. She said they were allies, that she would protect Emmi, and she didn't. They both fucking suck at their jobs.

"Yeah, you did," Emmi says. Arwen's eyes are really heavy, and it's already hard to see, but there might just be tears in Emmi's eyes. She doesn't think anyone's ever cried over her before. She's never deserved it anyway. She's not even sure what the people back home will mourn; the actual her, or the image they thought was her. No one probably even knows the difference.

Except for Emmi. Emmi who is going to stay alive.

Maybe that's all that matters.

"Stay alive," she repeats, the words almost failing her. She lets her eyes close, burns that one last image into her head. If that's the last thing she remembers, then so be it. Emmi's lips are chapped, cracked when they press against the center of Arwen's forehead, but it's nice and she wouldn't trade it for the world.

It's worth something. More than most things.

At least she got that.

She's dying, almost gone, but at least she's dying knowing Emmi lived.

Like she said - that's worth it.

* * *

 **Tarquin Vierra, 16  
Applicant #4**

* * *

He's acting like one of them.

Staying in the shadows, moving too fast to be properly seen for any one second, constantly itching with the thought that he's going to have to shoot..

He no longer feels like himself. He feels like a character in a play, like he's taken method acting a step too far. The mask fits too properly to his feet, his throbbing ankle no longer a concern. It can't be, or else he'd be moving too slow. Who knows how long Ria really has, how long it's going to take him. It already feels like he's been gone too long.

He's starting to recognize where he is, though, the tunnels that he spent the most time lurking around. He manages to find the dead end first and then backtracks back to the tunnel she pointed out initially, and only then does he grow more cautious, starting to move a bit slower.

You see, he never came down here. While it was tempting in some respect, he couldn't bring himself to do it. The temptation of real medical supplies, among other things, wasn't enough to get him down here.

It's become easier to force himself this way when it's someone else's life on the line. His mangled ankle wasn't going to kill him - the snakebite in Ria's system would.

So really, he didn't have a choice at all.

The tunnel slopes steadily downward and then plateaus out. There are lanterns on the wall again like that first main tunnel he fell into, but placed more sporadically.

Light means people, usually. He doesn't think he'll get so lucky as to not see anyone this time around.

He nocks an arrow as the light grows brighter, penetrating the darkness as if it's artificial. That doesn't make any sense. It's pure white, almost, more intense by the second. There's a door embedded into the crumbling dirt wall just ahead, a solid sheet of metal that looks heavier than he can imagine. There are two lights on each side of the door, bright florescents encaged in metal bars.

Okay, now it really doesn't make any sense. But a door means a room, and she said it was the Dark Room...

Quite the opposite, in fact, if this is what she was talking about.

He approaches and pulls at the wide handle - it gives way easier than he was expecting, the door opening a few inches soundlessly. The first ten or so feet inside are nothing but more lights, floor to ceiling this time, spread out evenly along two steel-gray walls the same color as the door. Beyond that it's something else, something that officially makes no sense at all. It's too white, too clinical...

Too everything this place is not.

He takes a few cautious steps in, leaving the door ajar behind him just an inch. It's freezing and he shivers despite the layers he's got on, getting closer and closer to the room that almost looks distinctly like a lab, all white everything. The chairs are the only things that look out of place - makeshift pieces of wood and fabric strung together poorly, but everything else looks like another place. Clean, even counters with dozens of drawers, more hanging from the wall. There's a little automated wall dispenser for gloves and another next to it full of packaged syringes.

This definitely shouldn't be here. It looks like something you'd see in a Capitol research lab, or maybe in the bowels of Three. Not here in the middle of the mountains, tucked away in the valley.

There's a machine in the far left, almost like an x-ray or something, and another for blood pressure.

Where the fuck did this all come from?

He doesn't really have time to figure that out, much as he wants to. There's another door at the back of the room, smaller than the one at the entrance. Most of the cold seems to be coming from that direction. Sometimes his mom would put medication in the fridge.. he wasn't sure why, but that seemed like a good bet. It was somewhere to start instead of rooting around in the drawers.

There's another blast of cold air when he opens the air, not quite freezing but enough to put a chill in the air. There are things stored all over wall-mounted shelves, containers and vials and God knows what else.

Something else is in the back corner of the room, too, hidden beyond the shadow of a few of the shelves, hanging from the ceiling...

Okay, definitely don't look that way.

Despite the number of things stored in here it's pretty easy to find exactly what it is he's looking for. They're stored in little cardboard boxes, wrapped in a layer of thin plastic. He doesn't understand half of the words written on the front label but just enough - mojave rattlesnake.

That'll do.

Hopefully.

He rips one of the boxes open and dumps both little glass bottles into one of his pockets. How many should he take? Do you need one, or multiple? He takes two more boxes for good measure - better to be safe than sorry, and he's going to need syringes from the main room. Gloves too, maybe, and some antiseptic? He can't imagine this is going to be very fun.

The fridge door slams behind him with a thud and he winces, hurrying back to the box of syringes near the door. He presses the button on the side repeatedly - all at once at least a dozen plastic-wrapped syringes come spilling out all over the floor and he scoops up a large handful of them, kicking the few that remain under the nearest section of counter.

He reaches into the container for the gloves, and there are voices outside the door.

Okay, maybe not gloves, then. He's definitely not going to have time to look for antiseptic either.

He knows with terrifying certainty that if he gets caught again he's going to die. She let him go to screw with him that first time, no other reason. Maybe someone _was_ onto him this whole time; it seems awfully convenient that someone's coming in here now when he's scrounging around for things.

There's only one way out, the main door. What is he going to do, hide in the fridge?

Apparently.

He practically dives back into the fridge, voices coming from just inside the main door a second later. He has no choice but to retreat to the back corner of the room but he keeps his eyes firmly on the floor. It looked like a body, from this distance. He's not going to look. Maybe it's Noelani. Maybe they finally found where he put Yorick.

He doesn't want to know either way.

There's more than one voice coming from the main room now. He recognizes the girl from before, can't help but wonder if she's Robin. She must be. It's another male voice, maybe two with her.

Up above his head there's a vent, and he can stretch his fingers just far up enough to reach it. This place needs a ventilation system - there has to be another near the outside door, then. At least that's what he's hoping.

He gets in, crawls to another vent, and hops out. They'll notice him, no doubt, but he'll have a little bit of a head-start.

It's that or he stays in here and waits for them to find him, waits to die in a fridge.

It's not much of a choice at all.

He pulls himself up the nearest shelf until his feet leave the floor and he pulls at the vent cover until it swings loose. He shoves his backpack in first, and then the bow. It's going to be a tight squeeze. He's not claustrophobic, but it's smaller than he'd like.

Like he said, though, no choice.

He hauls himself in, searching for all the hidden upper body strength in the world, and wiggles half his torso in. At the fridge's door the handle starts to turn; he kicks frantically until he's all the way in, safely hidden in the ceiling. There's no way he's going to be able to turn around to close the damn thing. They're going to notice, maybe look for a while.

But that doesn't matter, because he just needs to get back to the main door.

And then he needs to run like hell.

He has the bomb that Ria gave him, still. It's becoming a bigger presence in his head than ever before.

But not yet. Not now. He needs to get back to Ria first, give her what he's collected.

And then, maybe, he'll deal with them.

He might just have to.

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16  
Applicant #17**

* * *

When she said her vision was wonky before, she must have been lying.

Now everything's truly all gray at the edges. It feels like she's seconds from falling asleep but she's strangely awake, the pulsating sensation all the way up and down her leg keeping her from taking a nap.

She didn't tell Tarquin that when he held onto her she couldn't feel it like she normally could. He didn't seem like the type of person to handle that well.

It's been hours though, with her slumped back against this rock that's become her home. She's still burning but she's cold at the same time like a fever has taken over, and she's bundled herself in Mel's sweater over top of her own, nearly managing to cry about it as well. It doesn't help that she's still sweating like a madman.

Her foot has swollen up like a balloon, too. She got her shoe off but has no idea where she put it, and can only roll the leg of her pants up so far.

At least she has water. At this point it's the only thing motivating her enough to stay awake.

It feels like days before she hears any sound at all other than her own pulse in her ears - footsteps, rapid ones, and then a heavy panting. Two seconds later someone practically dives over the rock that's shielding her but she can't even raise a sound of alarm, sitting there limply as she watches Tarquin roll to a stop by her feet. He's got the mask on, but it's still undeniably him.

He sheds the backpack and thrusts it so hard at her she nearly falls over, but not before unzipping it and carefully removing the bomb, placing it on the ground to her left.

"Okay, listen to me," he instructs. "Are you listening?"

She nods dumbly. She really doesn't like looking at a mask, and can't help but wish he would take it off.

"I got six bottles - I think it was the right stuff. Clean syringes, too. They're in the right side pocket. Get a little ways away and then do it, I don't know how many times but hopefully six will be enough. There's more water in there - keep yourself hydrated and then stay still for a while."

"Wait," she says slowly, her throat like sandpaper. "Where are you going?"

"They're not far behind me. A lot of them, maybe all, I don't fucking know. They must have the idea that I'm not using that shit for myself, and they probably saw exactly what I took."

Her eyes drift to the bomb, abandoned by their sides. "There's no remote detonator."

"I know," he explains, and then pulls the box of matches from his pocket. "I left a few in the bag, too, just in case you need them."

"You'll be really close to it."

"I know," he repeats, and she can imagine there's something terribly sad in his eyes, because she can hear it in his voice. Maybe it's a good thing she can't see him then. "I know, but that's okay."

"No, it's not—"

"Listen to me," he insists, voice harsher than ever before. It's probably never been that harsh in his life. There's a chance he really is just that good of an actor, but that's not what she's feeling right now. "They're not going to stop. They killed Noelani, and maybe Mel too, and I'm not gonna let them kill you. If I'm gonna be a good person one more fucking time I'm gonna give you a chance. Maybe everyone else too."

There's only eight of them left. Eight.

What chance do they really have?

She hears something, a shout that's really not so distant at all. Tarquin hauls her to her feet before she can utter a single protest and then puts the bag over her shoulders. He looks bare without it, even wearing a mask, a bow draped over his arm. He helps her scramble over the rocks to their left until she's on flat ground once again, her head spinning the whole while.

"Go, okay?" he asks, a last plea. It's convincing, she'll admit. If she goes, she may just live because of him. Because he got the supplies for her in the first place, because he's going back in the mines to stop them.

He's going back in the mines to die.

"Go," he repeats. She wants to cry, has no idea how she hasn't run dry yet. Who in the world can possibly cry this much?

He turns though and scoops up the bomb, quickly clambering over the rock and disappearing round the bend, back the way he came. She stares for a moment, but he doesn't come back. She doesn't know why she expected him to... he's doing what he set off to do, exactly what he told her.

It just doesn't seem like who he is, to so eagerly offer himself up to die for someone he hardly knows.

Then again she hardly knows him either, so who is she to say what he's like? Maybe he's just this genuinely self-sacrificial all the time, in a not-so literal sense.

If Tarquin's intent was for her to get far, it doesn't work at all. She's stumbling along for maybe a minute or two before the earth begins to rumble beneath her feet and the explosion from behind nearly deafens her, sending her slamming into the nearest rock before she slides to the ground, landing flat on her face. The weight of the backpack is practically crushing her.

There's another smaller explosion, almost like an aftershock. She can hear something crumbling, giving way, smell the smoke and the acrid tang of the fire in the tunnels not all that far behind her.

It worked. Her bomb worked. She was delirious and in pain and struggling when she completed it, but it worked.

She pulls herself up a ways against the rock before it occurs to her to look, and she freezes where she is, half-draped over the top of the boulder, to stare at the bracelet. It still says eight - a bright little number in the otherwise darkness. The ground is still shaking, not as terribly as before. She can't bear to move a muscle even though her arms are fighting against the strain in her leg, too.

It takes three minutes, three very _long_ minutes in which she hardly breathes at all.

The eight becomes a seven.

She has a chance at living, now, but a little part of her dies.

* * *

 **Jupiter Valens, 14  
Applicant #16**

* * *

Seven is all of a sudden a very pitiful number.

A small part of him still expects to wake up from all of this. Or maybe it was just another part of the simulation - a test to see how the brains would react to the stress. Any second now Nyko would take that stupid headset off, deal with a lot of yelling on their end, explain exactly why they hadn't chosen to do it.

Sabre goes to sleep, curled up in the dirt looking bedraggled as all hell. As soon as he's not looking Jay pinches himself several times.

He doesn't wake up.

He flops back into the dirt, swallowing a groan because he knows Sabre sleeps fitfully already, doesn't want to wake him up when it looks like he gets so little sleep as is. He probably spent a decent amount of time alone after he killed Faye, something he previously felt he had the right to reserve judgement on until the two of them killed Meris.

It's really weird to think of himself as a murderer.

They never really thought of the Victor's as murderers, is the thing. They were champions of their sport, revered in the eyes of the Capitol. Like the captain of one of their soccer teams or the lead actor in one of those blockbusters that always came out at the beginning of summer.

No one would think of him that way if he got home. They'd probably just cry a lot.

It was also kind of tragic to realize he was never going to go see a movie with his friends again, but that was beyond the point.

It's also at this point that he's starting to realize they never said anything about a victor, about one final person. What's going to happen to that one person? Are they the victor? The survivor?

Letting them go home to live out the rest of their days in relative peace doesn't seem like a very Carnelia Trevall thing to do. It would send a message, sure, but he thinks they're more about the murder than any old message.

So he's survived a week for nothing, probably - killed Meris, abandoned Tarquin, never knowing what became of any of his now likely dead allies.

But he's alive, which seems like an accomplishment.

He does groan aloud this time - beside him Sabre twitches in his sleep. Some accomplishment that is. All being alive has done is piled more trauma upon his shoulders and brain and just about everything else. If he had stayed in that room like Caiman seemed to be doing he'd be easily, blissfully dead. He wouldn't be a murderer, wouldn't be a terrible fucking ally, for one.

Sabre doesn't seem to mind him, though. That or he's keeping very, very quiet about how uncomfortable he is with Jay's general presence.

Probably the latter.

It feels good to be doing something, though. He's now making a conscious effort to thank Sabre more, to make him smile even once every few hours, get an uplifting comment out that's able to raise both of their spirits even if only for a few minutes. It's not so quiet with the two of them anymore - it only is, really, when one of them settles down for the night with the other left on watch.

He wouldn't be friends with Sabre back home. That makes him feel kind of awful as well.

If he does by some miracle get home, he'll do better. Be better. He doesn't think he's anywhere near the worst person out there no matter what he's done, but there's always room for improvement.

That's by far one of the corniest things he could think right now, but it's keeping his mind off of everything else. The darkness and keeping quiet and remaining constantly on the lookout for anything at all, from a few feet away to the distant horizon.

It's a halfway promise, though. If he gets home, things can change.

God knows it's the only real promise he can make right now.

* * *

And say hello to your final (eight) seven because I'm bad at math: Soran, Icarus, Ria, Emmi, Sabre, Jay and Percy. Tarquin was there for a second, but y'know. Things happened. I welcome any and all tomatoes thrown in my direction.

I'm across the continent but settled, now, so the blog has been re-updated because I'm a big fat liar and Percy isn't dead. Oops? Never believe anything I say. It was really only Mal's placement that ended up changing as a result of it.

Until next time.


	33. No Mourners, No Funerals

XXX: Day Eight, Middle of the Night.

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17**  
 **Applicant #13**

* * *

It was odd to watch someone die, almost.

Arwen closes her eyes and she knows, despite not wanting to admit it, what's going to happen. She goes still but not all the way, nothing but the very faint rise and fall of her chest and the fleeting warmth of her cheek under Emmi's hand.

But she doesn't get colder, doesn't stop breathing. Not until Emmi slides a knife across her throat.

Percy jerks when she does it, makes an alarmed noise and takes half a step back away from the two of them. There, finally, is the cooling. The blood is immediate and overwhelming - she pulls her hand back to avoid the worst of it. The ugly rasp of Arwen's breathing finally faded off after that, into nothing. Into another time and place that was hopefully easier for her to navigate.

That was hours ago, though, and she's still sitting here. She doesn't know if Arwen's death is on her or the Sentinel that apparently shot her, the one that's dead in the other room.

And Percy is still here, too, sitting a few feet down the hall with his chin on his knees, watching. The stump of his arm is wrapped awkwardly around his legs and he makes a little noise of pain every so often, not loud enough to truly be a nuisance. That's weird, coming from him.

She doesn't truly know how long it's been since it happened when she finally stands up, slowly, all of her joints creaking. Her stomach and side pull a bit but not enough to tear open; she focuses on bending down once more to tuck the gun away back into her belt and then gently pats at Arwen's pockets.

"Keys are in the other room," Percy says slowly, unmoving. "On the floor."

She looks at him. "Are you planning on getting up?"

He shrugs, vaguely, wincing. "Haven't decided yet."

She nods, understanding at the foreground in her brain as it has been the past few days. As much as she loathes getting the awful actions of others, she gets them all. Clearly she's done some of them herself.

Jahaira's body behind them has not been mourned and won't be. Percy didn't know her and Emmi hardly did either. Anyone could have picked up the details Emmi knew about her - she liked photography, was close with Myra, hated all of this as much as the rest of them.

Emmi still murdered her in cold blood, the first kill that's really meant anything. Even that was quickly replaced by Arwen's own death, something Emmi is sure will always be her fault, both directly and indirectly.

Percy is still staring at the floor when she starts ambling her way down the hall towards where they all came from in the first place. She finds the keys quickly, abandoned underneath the archway that leads into the main room. The body that must be cold by now is nearly in the center, ruined face and all. It takes a lot of nerve just to look at it.

"Where are you gonna go?" Percy asks from the entryway.

"Around, probably."

"Makes sense."

"I'm not coming with you."

"I wasn't about to ask," she says, which causes a smile to tug at his lips, even if it fails at her own. "Where are you gonna go, then?"

"Away from people, hopefully. I haven't been doing so well with them lately."

"Looks like it," she observes. "There's only seven of us left, apparently. Maybe I'll see you again."

"Hope not."

She does too, if she's being honest with herself. Just because she didn't have the energy or drive to kill him now doesn't mean she won't in the future, and she isn't sure she wants to. He helped, in an odd way. He doesn't deserve death as a thank-you.

She departs in silence because she isn't sure there's anything else to say, makes her way outside and around the side of the building towards where she saw the truck parked. It was what had made her venture inside in the first place; chances are if the car hadn't been out here she would have avoided it altogether. Even the thought of Arwen being alive had pulled her inside, though, like a tether.

And it was snapped now.

She wants to cry and isn't sure why she isn't. Maybe after everything it's just harder to feel, more difficult to shed tears over something you were so sure you had lost anyway.

It was worse to have had Arwen for the time she just did than to never see her again, is the truth. It just made it hurt more, which makes it even more frustrating that she can't cry right now.

The truck's interior is filled with a deathly silence with just her left inside it. She remembers the start of this all, with six of them piled inside talking and arguing and acting like teenagers for the last time. They hadn't realized it then, but those were the best moments they really got.

Her hand is shaking when she turns the key over in the ignition and begins to pull back to the front of the building. She never really learned how to drive beyond the basics - teachers got frustrated with her, her dad tried but always seemed too nervous...

It would have been helpful now.

Something has her stopping in front of the courtyard, as if she's waiting for Percy to come striding outside shouting _that was a joke, I'm coming with you!_ When he doesn't, several long minutes of staring later, she pulls three bottles of water out of the still mostly-full case in the backseat and hops back out. There are probably supplies in that Sentinel's backpack, things that Percy will use to survive on his own, but this makes her feel better.

When she gets back into the main room Percy is still hovering in nearly the exact same spot; he jumps at her appearance even despite the gun that's still dangling from his hand.

They really could kill each other right now.

She drops the water bottles down on the table next to the door. "You sure?"

He smiles. "Yeah, I'm sure."

It's not _thank-you_ but it sure sounds like it. She wouldn't ask him to say it anyway.

After that it's a lot easier to leave; heart heavy in her chest, emotion an odd thing to navigate in her brain.

Everything's been hard, though. She'd be more surprised if it wasn't.

This chapter is over, now.

It's up to her to start a new one.

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16  
Applicant #17**

* * *

She doesn't make it very far before she collapses to the ground once again.

After that everything is just mechanical. She fumbles around for the syringes and bottles that Tarquin provided her with. It takes her a long few seconds to tear all the packaging off and then get the needle into the small jar. Her hand is shaking so bad by the time she fills the plunger she nearly drops both things into the sand. Finally she rolls her sleeve up to her elbow and wipes away the majority of the dirt there before she presses the needle in.

It hurts like she expected it to, worse than one of those standard shots you get when you're little at the local clinic. Maybe she should have put it in her leg but the flesh is so tender and swollen there she can't imagine the pain, let alone the effectiveness.

If it doesn't feel like it's working she can do it again. Tarquin got six jars.

And now he's gone. It's just her.

For the first time possibly ever in her life, she wants someone. Anyone, really, here with her right now to tell her that everything's going to be fine, to keep watch while she sleeps, to help her out just a little bit.

Halfway down a mountain, hidden behind a few rocks, no one's going to help her. Hell, no one's even going to be able to see her.

It's a good thing, though, because she swears she saw lights not long ago, far off in the distance, but lights all the same. There were lots of them - Sentinels, maybe, and anyone else might be good but not one of them.

She very slowly flattens herself to the ground, holding her arm out next to her. Tarquin said to lay low, stay hydrated. Obediently, like he's still here telling her, she pulls out one of the water bottles from his bag and takes a small sip, spilling some of it on the ground. Her hands are still shaking so badly she can't keep still no matter what.

But she's alive, at least for the near future. There's a lot riding on that simple fact - what she just injected into her body, for one, and if it's even the right stuff at all. Her vision is too wobbly to make out the label and all the other printed words on the cardboard boxes.

She just has to trust in Tarquin that he did the right thing for her.

He seemed so nice even back at the Institute. Nicer than she deserved for how little she cared to talk to him - he tried when almost no one else did, and not just because Noelani had wanted him to.

Noelani hadn't pulled her from that first day in the room anyway, but neither had he.

He had just saved her life _now_ , so she couldn't really be fussed to care about what he hadn't done in the past. It didn't seem right to be upset with a dead person anyway. Tarquin and Noelani both had their reasons; she certainly can't ask them about them now.

That's the one thing she would wish for, if she had even a single one to use up. To just be able to ask someone something. To have a genuine, quiet conversation and know someone. She knew Noelani liked art. She knew Tarquin liked theater but couldn't remember the name of the play he told her he was set to do in July. In the end she just never knew enough.

Maybe that was her problem. Maybe she just didn't care enough to know, and that was what had driven her into such seclusion.

It seems fitting that she's alone now, when she doesn't really want to be.

Anyone would be good, really. Meliodas, Meris, Tarquin, Noelani. She can't help but wonder if Sabre is alive somewhere out there. He would be fine too; probably not the best for conversation, but she wouldn't protest that. If he is alive the chances of finding him are slim to none at this point, in her condition. There's really no point in wondering.

She could still be dying, for all she knows. She has no business wondering.

It's her imagination, certainly, but her head already feels slightly less foggy. It's the psychology behind medicine, not any real effect after such a short period of time, but it's doing wonders for her brain.

Maybe she'll be okay. Maybe...

She doesn't want to deal in weak maybes, but they're all she has.

She rolls over onto her side when her leg starts to throb again, pillows her head on her arm and stares at the bright needle-mark in the curve of her elbow. She drags the backpack closer, pulls out another syringe and bottle and tucks them just inside the open zipper, where she can reach them at a moment's notice.

There's something overwhelming in her chest - she can't tell if it's the despair, or the sadness. A mix of both.

Or maybe it's just the antivenom doing something odd to her.

Probably that.

Tarquin died for her. Someone felt strongly enough about her, towards her, that they were willing to sacrifice themselves for it. She's really not the type of person that deserves that sort of loyalty after the kinds of things she's done, and maybe she'll never feel like she is.

But someone thought so. He thought so.

There is no option in her brain that includes letting him down, or anyone that's ever believed in her. Meliodas and Meris, her parents...

It's not an option.

* * *

 **Sabre Hennedige, 15  
Applicant #6**

* * *

"Hey, Sabre?"

He rolls over and nearly bumps his forehead into the wheel of the bike, glancing at Jay through the spokes. He's in much the same position as Sabre is, poking at the back tire of the bike with one finger.

His face is still showing the signs of long-dried blood, nose swollen and purpled along with the bags underneath his eyes.

"What?"

"Do you want to play a game?"

He considers that. "That sounds... a little creepy."

"Was that a joke?" Jay asks. "Solid, dude. I was just wondering if you think you could guess who's still alive besides the two of us, obviously."

"Isn't that a bit morbid?"

"I guess so. I was just wondering."

Sabre rolls over to his back again, still able to see Jay from the corner of his eye. It's something he's wondered himself, who could possibly be the other five people left alive. If he's being honest he wouldn't have expected to see himself this far along, and Jay probably thinks the same thing. Neither of them would have been pegged as contenders in the Capitol's eyes had this been a regular old Games nine or so years ago. They'd be two people with very mediocre scores, doomed to die early like most people.

It's a good thing this isn't a regular old Games, then. The furthest thing from it really.

He still hasn't responded, can't come up with a list that makes any sense. It's easier to figure out who's not on it, really. Faye and Meris. Caiman, most likely. Jay left Tarquin, so maybe him too, and he didn't see Noelani and Topher again either.

"Who would you not want to be alive?" he asks back. If they're going to be morbid here, he might as well hit a home room.

"Kidava," Jay responds instantly. "She'd probably fucking gut me, and not in a nice way."

"There's a nice way?"

"Not with Kidava there isn't," he says. "You're right, this is pretty morbid."

"Who would you rather see alive, then?"

"Everyone," Jay answers just as quick. Whatever Sabre thinks he could say fades away after that single word. Of course it was a stupid thing to ask - he lets the shame wash over him in silence as the magnitude of the question hits him in full.

Of course everyone should still be alive. This wasn't supposed to ever happen, not to them, not to anyone. All they've been taught in the past nine years was about how terrible the Games were, how wrong they had always been. The revolution was a good thing - more often than not, revolutions were good things. They brought about the end of the worst type of things you could imagine.

They had none of that now, no revolution to come and save them, to turn back the clock.

"You wanna play a different game?" Jay asks, voice slightly strained. It's clear they've both been thinking about exactly what a stupid question it was this whole time.

He really should just keep his mouth shut sometimes, but Jay is clearly trying to distract from that, to make him forget his error in the first place. He's not sure if anyone's ever cared enough to do that for him.

"Like what?"

"I don't know, I Spy? That's easy."

"What's that?"

"You know, sometimes I think you're like, a ninety year old with memory problems disguised in a fifteen year old's body. Have you seriously never played that before?"

"I don't think so."

"Well, you just pick something - don't tell me what it is. Say: I spy with my little eye, something brown. And I have to guess what it is."

He takes a very long look around. "Pretty much everything is brown."

"It was an example, you clown. Pick something else."

Sabre takes another look around again, propping his elbow underneath himself to get a better look at his surroundings. They're in the middle of nowhere again, which is where they always end up. There's really not that much around, never has been.

"I spy with my little eye, something purple," he settles on. The sentence itself sounds a little childish coming out of his mouth, but Jay appears to be taking this very seriously. He sits up and does a full rotation, scoots around until he's done an entire circle. Once he's done that he leans in closer to inspect each individual groove of the bike, occasionally glancing at Sabre through the gaps in the middle. Finally he looks down at himself, patting at his shirt like he's certain something purple is going to appear.

He gives Sabre a suspicious look. "I don't like you screwing with me."

"Your nose."

"What?"

"Your nose is purple."

Jay's eyebrows furrow - he tries to glance down the bridge of his nose at the state of it, which only results in a several second long wince on his end. "Okay, now you're really a clown. You think the state of my nose is funny?"

"No. I just thought you wouldn't guess that."

"You thought it was funny," Jay accuses. "Like I said, _clown_."

It's really not funny, because he doesn't want to imagine how bad it hurts even to take a breath, but he smiles and lays back down in the dirt, staring up at the sky. That is kind of purple as well - more blue-black, but sort of purple. Jay probably wouldn't appreciate him pointing that out.

"I spy with my little eye, something yellow."

"Your nose, again?" he guesses. It's starting to yellow at the edges, though he may not be able to tell.

Jay groans and flops down in the dirt. "We're never playing this again."

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17  
Applicant #10**

* * *

Soran's breathing is a little off.

Not that he's watching or listening like a hawk or anything, it's just hard _not_ to notice. He's wide awake in the middle of the night, in the silence, nothing else to do but listen to it.

It just sounds a little _too_ labored, pained. Justifiable, of course, after what happened to him, but it doesn't make Icarus feel any better.

Finally mostly sorting himself out emotionally won't do any good if one of them dies _now_.

That would be rather frustrating, despite how inevitable it seems now. There's only seven of them left and the fact that the two of them have made it this far, especially _together_ , is ridiculous in and of itself. Soran nearly killed him on the first day. He threatened to do the same on the second. If anyone could have predicted this and told him about it, he'd have hit them.

The same way he hit Soran, but maybe a little harder. He was too shell-shocked to hit him properly, is his justification. Not his lack of technique.

His instinct now in the dead of night is to wake Soran up just to have someone to talk to, something to do other than stare at him, but he's been asleep since he put the last of the stitches in himself and that's probably for the best. It wasn't pretty to watch - he threaded a needle, dragged it repeatedly through the hole in his side that Icarus hadn't even known existed but certainly explained all the blood. By the time he had finished he was trembling too hard to hold the needle properly and Icarus had to pry it from his cold fingers, setting it away where it wouldn't touch either of them.

He had been the one that had bandaged it, gross as it was. He was the one who had to ignore all the skin dangling from the soft underside of his arms, folding it back into something resembling normalcy, and then bandage those as well. He had taped his fingers together, anchored them against another with Soran's weak instructions to guide him.

None of it seemed right. Not fragile Soran, not him dealing with wound care like he didn't want to scream and cringe and run approximately fifty miles in the opposite fucking direction.

It was what they had, though. And although he still blames Soran for what happened, a part of him knows that if he had just gotten over it and never left that this wouldn't have happened. Why couldn't he have just thrown his tantrum in another room like a normal person instead of storming away for half the day like a petulant, runaway child?

He doesn't think Soran blames him, really. Which is weird, because he thought Soran just liked to blame him for everything.

Oh how far they've come.

Soran shifts, finally, after what feels like hours of absolutely _not_ staring at him. His breathing sounds a little bit better when he's awake, even halfway. He can't tell if that's for his own benefit or not, if Soran's faking it.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

"Like I've been run over by one of those stupid trucks with the giant roller on the front," he answers without opening his eyes.

"The ones they use to pave?"

"Yeah, those."

"Got it."

Icarus understands it, much as it doesn't really apply to him. His face has seen better days, _much_ better days, but he's relatively intact besides that. Soran's been riddled like a pincushion and had to close the holes himself.

"We should probably move tomorrow," Soran says.

"Alright."

"I'd appreciate a bit of a fight. You suddenly being agreeable and nice is very jarring."

"Deal with it," he mutters. "You said you didn't want to fight with me."

Soran rolls over, slow and awkwardly, easing the weight off of his injured side. It means he's facing Icarus now, and although he has yet to open his eyes their noses are just about touching. He doesn't feel compelled to move.

"Besides," he continues. "You're the one that needs the rest. If you're good to go, I'll go. They'll probably kill us if we stay here any longer anyway."

"Learned that lesson the hard way," Soran mutters and he feels bad again, for no reason at all. He really should have been there. What an ironic part of his life that would have been, to have to come back to another person that died when he chose to leave. It seems like a reoccurring theme.

It was different with Estella, though. He knew every time he left that something could happen - when he left Soran he hadn't realized he'd care if something did until he saw him nearly dead up against the wall, completely limp with two hands around his throat.

He can still see it so clearly. Wishes desperately that he couldn't.

"You sure you're fine?" he asks.

"Peachy."

"Do you need anything?"

"No."

"Positive?"

"Absolutely one hundred and fifty percent positive," Soran mumbles. "Go the fuck to sleep, Icarus."

Soran certainly seems like he's about to follow his own advice, centimeters away from Icarus' own face. His odd breathing is louder, now, closer up. Maybe it's something to do with his ribs. His side was all black and blue snaking up away from the stab wound, but he's no doctor. He wouldn't know right from wrong there.

He just has to trust that Soran really is fine, that he's not lying to him.

For once he's really not worried about any lies. At least not ones that Soran could tell him.

No, what he's worried about is the one he's begun to tell himself, the one that says _you'll be fine, you'll both be fine_ over and over again, like a mantra. It's all he can hear other than Soran's breathing.

And it's not true, is the worst part.

* * *

 **Carnelia Trevall, 38**  
 **Leader of Sentinel Squad Invictus**

* * *

She's seen a lot of messes in her life.

She had been born into one, really, if it was all meant to lead up to this. Two parents who couldn't save her, a brother who she lost long before the flames came for him too, a squad buried outside of Two's boundaries in unmarked, unmourned graves.

These kids had no reason to complain about what they were losing, not to her. Not when she had lost her entire life.

It had seemed like things were going well for so many years after, after she had found Khia and the others. Khia who was one hand down now and not too pleased by it, Nephele and Max and Flora who were _dead._

She had known the risks. They all had.

She was dying anyway.

Flora had told her that a dozen times over, but now she was dead too. In truth, she really hadn't meant to bring them all down with her, but it seemed fitting. She was the only survivor of the Titans, could only imagine how Lucien raged from hell about how infuriated he was that he hadn't outlived her.

Nobody here would act that way, but that didn't mean she wanted any of them surviving if she didn't.

The truth was, they'd detonate. They had no way to exist on their own, hadn't before Carnelia had found them all. God only knew what horrors they would get up to had they been left to their own devices for the past nine years. They certainly wouldn't have made it this far, not without her.

Sharmyn especially, who appears to be picking up handfuls of the dirt from the collapsed mine tunnel and pitching them at Cassian's back when he so much as looks in the opposite direction.

It what she's come to expect from this lot. They don't have the discipline.

For a while, it was kind of a nice change. Now with three of them dead the differences are glaringly obvious.

"How many now?" she asks Oren as he approaches the car. His hands are covered in grime.

"Seven."

"And how many were there?"

"By our estimates, maybe a dozen. Do you want us to keep looking?"

"I want to know they're all dead," she answers, which was a kinder way of saying yes. Seven bodies wasn't twelve, and for all they knew there were more buried underneath the rubble that was now the mine's entrance into the side of the mountain.

The kid had certainly done a number with the bomb. They had seen the explosion from the plateau at the bottom.

"Got another one!" Tully yells from across the way, and Carnelia watches her pull a body from the mounds of dirt by the arm, letting it roll limply down the pile until it hits solid ground.

"Eight," Oren says.

"But not him."

"No. There's no way to tell where he was when the tunnel collapsed. Chances are the majority of them were somewhere in the middle, which is why we're finding them easier. He could be anywhere. And it's still burning further in."

So he won't go in any further, is what he means. Sharmyn and Cassian really aren't doing anything, and Tully's still outside. She doesn't even _know_ where Ezio is and probably doesn't want to.

Khia's asleep in the back of the truck, good arm pillowed underneath her head.

"How is she?" Oren asks.

"How would you be if you lost a hand?"

"She shouldn't have fucked with him, then." He shrugs. "Flora fucked with Emmi, look what happened."

"And what about Max and Nephele?"

"Bad luck."

Even bad luck shouldn't have been enough in those cases. Outnumbered or not it shouldn't have happened. She thought she taught them better than that.

Maybe she was never meant to be a teacher. That was the more likely explanation.

"Are we going to die?" Oren asks, still lurking by her side. He's not usually this vocal, this willing to participate in active conversation. That's Cassian's job - they're the silent and the violent, those two.

"I am. I'm not so sure about the rest of you."

"I said _we_ , not you," he clarifies. "So what? Are we?"

A leader in most circumstances does their damnedest to keep everyone alive. Like Luca would. To her knowledge all of Prometheus is still out there alive somewhere - Luca and Meritt and Seren and all of the other people that put the final nail in her coffin.

Once upon a time she could have been with them. Could have loved them.

That option no longer exists for her.

"I don't know," she says, and it feels like the first time she's ever said those words. "I haven't decided yet."

* * *

Sorry for the delay - I'm home now! And still a walking plane delay curse but what can you do?

A shorter, slightly more chill chapter for you all, if chill is an appropriate word. Maybe not but I'm not sure how else to describe it.

We're in the home stretch. There's a new poll on my profile, so get your final guesses in before we get there! Not long now.

Until next time.


	34. There Will Be Blood

XXXI: Day Eight, Evening.

* * *

 **Jupiter Valens, 14**  
 **Applicant #16**

* * *

Should they really be headed _towards_ the light?

"Should we be headed towards the light?" he asks Sabre over the sound of the bike, which is muffled because of the rather slow speed they're going at. It's like something's broken, but he's no mechanic, and neither is Sabre.

Sabre shrugs - he feels it where he's leaning over his shoulder to try and get a better look.

He's not sure what it is. A dull glow seeping from one of the windows it what appears to be a hovel of a building at the base of the mountains. Fire, maybe, or a dying flashlight. He doesn't know the difference.

It's obvious that it's something, though, someone who probably said hello to him at some point passing by each other in the hallway at the Institute. Hell, he could have shared a room with them. He almost hopes that the case - he wouldn't have a reason to be scared of Damas, or maybe it could even be Topher or Tarquin. That wouldn't be so bad. He could fix that.

Gideon, though. Gideon would hurt him.

Sabre slows the bike down even further on the last stretch to the building, stopping maybe twenty feet away from it. There's no way whoever's inside hasn't heard them - the bike makes enough racket to wake the dead. One of his worst fears is that he'll somehow survive this whole situation and still hear that noise wherever he goes, when he lays down at night. It's a terrible noise.

"So what are we doing?" he asks, when the both of them stay firmly seated on the bike.

"I don't know?"

"Then why did we come this way!" he hisses. "We didn't have to, you know."

"We could leave?"

"Well, not now," he mutters, even though they absolutely could. He's already clambering off the bike, actively ignoring his own advice. "We're here, we have to see who it is."

How bad could it go, really? Five other people are somewhere here and one could be just in front of them. Maybe they'd be okay with joining up. Three is a good number, better than four ended up being. Even with the thought of that in the back of his mind he still grabs a hold of the metal bar, taking a few paces towards the building.

"I'll go around the back," Sabre offers. "It looks like it stretches a ways. Meet in the middle?"

"Sounds good. Be careful."

Sabre nods and jogs around the side of the building soundlessly, out of view. He keeps his eyes trained on the flickering in the window. It definitely looks like fire closer up, moving back and forth like a grouping of flames. For someone to have started a fire they must have had the supplies to do so - the temperature _is_ dropping lower than he thinks it ever has before, but not enough for someone to put up the real primitive efforts to start a fire.

No, this was easy for them. A match, or a lighter. Something.

They probably have more supplies than Jay does.

On second thought, why did Sabre say _meet in the middle_ and furthermore why did he even agree? Chances are one of them will find whoever's lurking in here before they meet back up again, and who knows what will happen when it's just two people facing off. At least with Sabre by his side he would have felt a little bit more confident, and he's sure the feeling would be reciprocated.

God, he's an idiot. The actual worst.

He edges closer to the window, expecting and awaiting movement, but none ever comes. Finally he takes a chance at peeking in - the room is bare, stunningly so. There's nothing in it except peeling walls and a solid concrete floor, cracked at the entryway that's to his right.

And there is indeed a fire roaring in the corner, a pile of wood, scraps of something, and some brush shoved underneath it all, burning away. It's decently sized for something so makeshift.

There's also a backpack sitting by it. If this was Jay here he definitely wouldn't have left the thing so close to the fire when there's nothing to contain it. One stray ember could light the whole thing up, and it looks like it's full of supplies.

No one appears on the other side of the window.

He kind of wants it.

No, scratch that, he definitely wants it. He's fucking starving, alright? If anything is going to contain food that's going to be it, and even if it doesn't maybe it'll have something that can lift his spirits more. Bottles of water to replenish their empty stock, pills to stop the throbbing in his nose, a machine that will literally teleport him the hell out of here.

Anything, really. He's not being picky here.

He hurries around the side of the building and into the room before he can change his mind. There's a door leading into another room, and at least one more beyond that. He can't see Sabre, though, so probably more. He can't hear him either.

There's nothing he can hear really except the fire.

With one hand extended out holding onto the bar he creeps closer and closer, fingers edging towards the backpack. It feels like a practical fucking joke, like there must be a string attached to the strap and someone's about to tug it away from him out the door.

No one would have just left this here, not even for five minutes.

There's no way.

His hand touches it though, fabric scratchy underhand, and nothing happens. He waits, turns around a few times, waiting for the truth to hit. He's still not looking when he unzips the front pouch, slowly, dipping his hand inside as if something's about to bite him. No matter how hard he looks nothing appears.

There's cool plastic underneath his hands and he finally chances a glance in. It's something about the size of his finger, long and thin, tucked away under a layer of protective casing. A needle, looks like. Unopened.

Why would someone have this? Better question - where the hell did they get it?

There are footsteps behind him. He turns, expecting Sabre. They're the same quiet tempo, even and quick.

It's not Sabre.

And he doesn't get a chance to see who it really is, before they shove him into the fire.

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17  
Applicant #13**

* * *

She's been sitting here for a while.

She drove for longer, probably, in a lot of circles or squares or other shapes. For a long while she hadn't known what to do. Nothing made sense, no option came to mind over any other.

She had driven around for hours on end, stopping only when she had realized how foolish she was being wasting that much gas.

The mountains were good for hiding - she tucked the car away and climbed to the nearest precipice, sitting down on the edge of it. The fall was at least a hundred feet as the only safe way away was the road she had driven up in the first place. Although it would have scared anyone else that had been through what she had, it didn't ignite any sort of worry in here.

Unless she jumped, she wasn't going over.

She wasn't going to jump.

She had come to a conclusion in all those hours; she absolutely was not going to die.

That left her with two paths. She could kill everyone else left, six people in total, and become the last one standing. Then she would have to hope that her victory status granted her some sort of immunity from death, but she didn't get the feeling that Carnelia Trevall and her wacky gang of Sentinels were feeling so kind. Chances are she'd get two whole seconds of relief from being the last one left and they'd kill her anyway.

Like she said - she wasn't going to die.

So if the first path was a no-go, then that left her with one. She had chosen this edge for a reason - she could see light in the distance at the bottom of the mountain she sat on now, and then a few hours later two more people approaching it on a bike.

Having the map was turning out to be a more useful tool than she thought. After much time spent tracing lines with her finger she had figured out exactly where she was now.

Okay, maybe not exactly. It was a pretty accurate guess, though.

They were leaning towards the left of the valley. She had driven quite a ways away from the castle-looking building and gone in circles, but had always made left progress it seemed. They had started closer to the bottom, that she was more certain of now. The valley wasn't quite as wide at the top. A boundary was easier to access.

She had a car, now. It was tempting to make a break for it. Civilization couldn't be that far away.

Something was keeping her from doing that, though. She couldn't put her finger on it. She takes a few more sips of water and munches on some more granola at the sight of the bike, and that's what makes her stand up.

There's probably someone in that building. Two more on the bike. That's at least three. She's four.

Counting doesn't really do anything for her. Math has never been her strong suit.

She gets back in the truck, not waiting to see if the bike is actually headed towards the building with the light or going to veer off at the last second. She piles all of her supplies in the front seat, keeps the gun close and the machete. She's probably going to need it.

Emmi looks up, something she hasn't allowed herself to do in all the hours since she's been back in the truck. She finds herself in the rearview mirror, almost stunned at what she sees looking back at her.

There's not much that's recognizable. Her face is bruised and scraped, blood dried in the grooves at the bottom of her nose and the corners of her eyes, her mouth. Her lip is split down the side, there's a cut across the bridge of her nose and another over her temple. The only thing she sees that even mildly looks like herself is the hair, brown with the pink in it, but the pink has almost been hidden beneath the layer of caked on dirt and dust. Even the tightly wound braid Arwen had put in it was almost gone, now.

She reaches up and prods at her split lip. It doesn't hurt. Her shoulder hasn't been aching for quite some time either. Everything is scabbed over, healing. Maybe her stomach and side still aren't doing quite so good, but she's not a doctor. She wasn't expecting miracles.

Besides the obvious she's healing. She's getting better.

The thought nearly makes her cry. For a long while she thought she was going to die in that canyon; it certainly felt that way.

But here she is. And she has a decision to make.

She turns the key over and pulls the truck back onto the road. It took her a few minutes to get up here, taking each corner and turn slow. Now she knows what it looks like, though, and she knows exactly the path she'll be following.

Mentally and physically. She _knows._

It won't take her long to get to the bottom. A shorter amount of time, even, to cross the distance from the bottom to the building just ahead.

There's no telling what could happen. As she's come to discover it's usually the worst thing you can imagine, but even that is survivable.

And she's going to survive.

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16  
Applicant #17**

* * *

Ria makes sure not to look at him too directly.

No, when she grabs him by the shoulders and pushes him towards the fire's center, she actually looks away.

That doesn't stop her from _seeing_ though, from hearing the screams the second he topples over into the fire she built in the corner of the room for almost this exact reason. There was never a stabbing in her future. She couldn't see herself doing it.

Fire is better. For her.

Not him, though. He's howling as the fire catches on his clothes - he rolls away from it and then back into it, still screaming. He probably doesn't even realize what he's doing, that he's making it worse in the process of trying to put it out.

She can smell it all - the burning hair, the melting flesh, the charred scent of his clothing turning to ash.

She heard the bike outside, thought _he killed Meris, he participated in that._ And now he's dying.

It still doesn't really feel like she did it.

"Ria?"

She recognizes that voice, as if from years ago. A distant memory, a quiet one, one that almost sounds like...

Oh, no.

She turns. Sabre is lurking in the doorway she popped out of in the first place, lurking in the corner of the room until he was unaware she was watching him peek through her bag. There were two of them, then, when Meris died. She didn't know there would still be two of them now.

And it's Sabre. One of the few people who offered her any amount of kindness, one of the only ones she could have imagined ever becoming friends with. She didn't do friends very easily.

"Sabre," she answers, much weaker than his own. His eyes are vacant, staring beyond her into the fire. The body is still up in flames, but he's stopped screaming. Dead, or unconscious from the pain. Either way, it's better.

It's Sabre. Sabre helped kill Meris.

The two of them should never have been killers.

"Sabre," she repeats. He swallows, staring at the corpse just beyond her feet. His hands are shaking, the left one that's clutching a small tool twitching so badly that she half-expects him to drop it. All observation fails her in that moment; she has no clue what he's thinking, what he's about to do.

"What did you do?" he breathes. "Why did you..."

Oh, they were close. Or something like that. She's not the best person to ask in terms of understanding interpersonal relationships, although she'd like to have worked on that more. She may not get the time now.

It could be right now, too, although it's quite difficult when Sabre won't meet her eyes.

She doesn't think she could look herself in the eye right now either. She never was a big fan of mirrors.

"I'm sorry," she starts. Not enough. Not good enough. She struggles for more words. "I thought..."

"What did you think?" he says. "That he was going to kill you? He wouldn't. He wasn't going to. _I_ wasn't going to."

"What about Meris, then?" she accuses. "He killed her. _You_ killed her."

"I knew it was you," he says. "I saw someone hiding behind the rocks and I turned us around so that nothing would happen."

"A lot of good that did us," she manages. "I didn't— I'm _sorry_."

The worst part about the antivenom working is that her head is slowly clearing after the multiple injections she's pumped herself full of. There's no longer that dangerous, confusing fog to act as an excuse. It's just her and how useless she is, how much she doesn't get. She'll never understand this.

His hands are still trembling. His fingers readjust along the tool, knuckles whitening. There's blood dried all over the spike on the end.

He looks like he doesn't know what to do with it.

"Sabre," she says. He looks at her then for the first time. The look in his eyes is worse than what she was anticipating it to be.

"I don't know what I'm doing." His voice shakes, tears well in his eyes until a few spill over. Tarquin left her two knives in the bag, two knives that are still there now. The metal bar he had is lying abandoned half in the flames.

The fact that she's considering a weapon now means a lot of things.

"I never know what I'm doing," he continues. "I never get it— I just can't figure it out."

"You can," she murmurs. "You can, I know you can. It's hard now, but one day you will. I know you will."

He shakes his head. More tears. For a second she considers doing something totally unlike herself, as if taking a step forward to grab onto him is wise, or smart. Her mom always said how smart she was, and that's not it.

He raises it, just a bit. She can't tell if the spike is more pointed at her or back at himself.

Neither are particularly appealing options.

Finally, then, she takes a step forward. His whole body jerks as if he's suddenly been brought back to life and he rears away from her. He's going to hurt himself, then, come to a breaking point where he—

There's a crack like thunder. She shies away, arms flung across her face as if to protect herself from some invisible strike that never comes.

When she finally dares to look up there's blood in Sabre's mouth, some seeping down to the end of his chin. He stumbles forward a few paces as if he's about to come into her arms, admitting defeat, but she finds she can't even open them. She doesn't even know what to think until she sees the shadow just beyond him, the end of a smoking gun.

She still doesn't open her arms. Sabre falls to the ground at her feet, a bullet in his back.

Dead.

"Sorry," Emmi says. "But that looked like it was going south."

Her knees wobble and then she's on the ground. Her hands catch on the cool pavement, scraping up the already rough edges of her palms. She wants to look. Can't. There's a lot of blood blooming out from a single point in the center of his back - she definitely can't look.

"I wanted at least one of you alive," she says. "Both would have been preferable, but it didn't look likely."

Ria tries to say something and chokes on the air she inhales, gasping there on the ground like an idiot. Emmi takes a few steps closer and she shies away, the threat of a sob in her throat.

Why did this _happen_? Why did it happen like this?

"Listen to me," Emmi says. "I have an idea, but I'm going to need help. And if you're still alive then I think you can help."

She shakes her head, feeling like an imitation of Sabre. She can't even stand up, what is she going to do to help anyone right now? She killed someone instead of seeing their true intentions, couldn't help Sabre, watched him collapse and die and did nothing.

And she's still not doing anything.

"Isperia," Emmi says slowly. "It's Isperia, right?"

"Ria," she chokes.

"Alright, Ria." Emmi crouches down, still a good few feet away. That makes her feel a bit better. "I'm not asking you to trust me. Not after everything that's happened. But I need help."

"With what?"

"Get in the car and I'll tell you."

"Car?" she rasps, looking around as if one will suddenly appear out of thin air. It wouldn't be the strangest thing that's happened, or the worst.

No, the worst is in front of her. It's always been right in front of her, her doing.

"Outside," Emmi clarifies. "I want you to come with me."

She still feels like she's choking, struggling to breathe. She's had an anxiety attack before, more than one, in fact. This doesn't feel anything like it. It sort of just feels like she's dying, which she knows she's not. It would be too easy to just die now.

She's never going to get back up.

Not unless...

Emmi is still looking at her. She just killed Sabre. Sabre who probably wanted to die anyway, but that doesn't matter. And now she's here in front of Ria, asking for something that makes no sense at all. Something she's not even sure she can do.

All of a sudden there's a hand outstretched towards her. Emmi stands back up but the hand stays, waiting.

Ria gets the feeling she'd wait forever, if the situation called for it.

She knows deep down that if Emmi leaves right now she'll never get back up again. She'll stay here with these bodies until she withers away and dies, or until the Sentinels put her out of her misery. She feels so weak, broken, like everything Tarquin did was the most pointless thing in the universe, that Mel and Meris died for nothing, that Sabre...

She doesn't want to know what Sabre felt. She thinks if she did she might let the earth swallow her whole.

She swallows. There's not a single part of her that's not shaking.

Emmi's hand is steady, unwavering, when she takes it to stand back up.

* * *

 **Soran Faerber, 18  
Applicant #8**

* * *

Driving really isn't all that bad.

It's something to focus on, which is leagues better than his aching side or his aching neck or his aching literally fucking everything.

Even Icarus isn't choosing to be a particularly annoying thorn in his side for once. He's been oddly quiet. It's sort of terrifying, really. It has to have been at least an hour since he's heard his voice; that has to be some kind of record.

He notices him looking over, though, like he's convinced Soran is about to do some kind of spectacular tuck and roll out of the car, leaving him to crash into the nearest wall.

The town they've found is bigger than anything else thus far, but it's still nothing much. It's equivalent to a few city blocks, if that. All of the buildings are small, fixed with broken, unreadable signs and caved-in wrap around porches. He's driving down each worn dirt road at a snail's pace, taking each one with careful precision, watching every corner.

"Are we looking for something?" Icarus asks quietly. Record broken, but at least it was quiet.

"I'm not."

"Well, I haven't seen anything."

Every conversation they have now is loaded, the number seven hanging over their heads—

"It's down to five," he realizes, turning his hand around the steering wheel to better see the little screen. Icarus' head snaps around to see for himself, but there's no denying the number in the corner of the screen. The twenty-four below it only looks more sad.

Icarus mutters something under his breath, inaudible, and then lets his head thud into the window.

"What?"

"What's our plan? Kill the other three people and then what?"

"I kill you, presumably, because your idea of fighting someone stronger than you is just to punch them and your track record with that is less than stellar."

Icarus doesn't even look alarmed, just resigned, which is truly telling of their relationship right now. Before... everything, he would have taken that seriously.

Maybe he still is.

"That was a joke," he clarifies. Icarus sighs.

Okay, so he knew. That's good.

"I don't wanna die," he continues.

"And you think I do?" he asks.

"No. But presumably one of us is going to."

"I would say that's looking pretty likely, yeah," he says. Icarus continues making a whole lot of vaguely irritated, upset noises, and there's nothing he can really do about it. No matter what he does he's never been able to shut him up. The only time he ever got close was when he kissed him, and even then he got punched for it. It was a shitty punch, but still.

"Look, as much as it pains me to admit this, if it's not going to be me I'd like it to be you."

"That pains you?"

"Not terribly. I just have a persona to maintain."

Icarus cracks a smile. "You're doing a terrible job."

He is. He also doesn't really mind. They've got this far, done this much. Done it together. There's really no faking it around him anymore. Even when he doesn't want him to Icarus knows. Icarus knows him better than Icarus knows himself, he feels. Or maybe he's just easier to understand. That's one of the only things he remembers his mother telling him, how much like an open book he could read.

He likes to think he's fixed that, that he can't be read by whoever so much as looks his way. Maybe Icarus just doesn't fit in that equation.

"So we get to the final two," he says. "Final two, and then we sit there until the Sentinels show up. Whoever lives lives."

"You're really not gonna kill me."

It's not a question. "Tried once. Didn't work. Figure you get a pass now."

"You just like me too much. Admit it."

"You're right - I don't mind you."

"Well I don't mind you either," Icarus says easily, like he's been thinking it for a while. He figures that's the closest the two of them are ever going to get to any type of admission, when at least one of them is going to be dead soon. They don't have time for much else when that's looming on the horizon. All he knows is that they don't have much time left, whatever that entails. He's not going to waste that time being a liar, refusing to admit the truth until he's blue in the face.

They lapse back into silence again. He almost points it out, but the conversation didn't scrape at his nerves like they used to. It just felt easy, sort of stupidly easy.

Well, they definitely are both stupid, if nothing else.

"I think I saw someone," Icarus says some ten minutes later, another few circles of the dirt roads completed. He slams the car into a dead stop so fast that he crashes into the steering wheel - more pain flares up in his chest and radiates out, all the way down his sides.

"For the first time in my life I'm going to advocate for seat-belts," he wheezes.

"You dying?"

"Maybe. Don't think so. Which way?"

His eyes are squeezed shut against the pain; he only opens them when Icarus doesn't respond. Icarus who is looking at him like he has no concern for the outside world, for the person he just supposedly saw.

"Which way?" he forces out again, leaning back in his seat. The pain is ebbing away again. It hurts like hell, but it's always on the brief side. He can handle it.

Icarus looks conflicted, not nearly a strong enough word for the war in his eyes. There's a decision to make here. Soran could drive for hours and not see anyone, not without another pair of eyes looking. If Icarus doesn't point it out nothing may ever happen. They'll drive forever.

It's a beyond important decision.

"Left," Icarus says finally, looking in the aforementioned direction, towards a cluster of buildings at the edge of the town.

They lie to themselves. Not often to each other.

Icarus wouldn't lie to him now.

Soran waits until the pain fades a smidgen more and then turns the car left, towards whatever it was that Icarus saw.

Whoever.

Decision made.

* * *

 **Percius Marigold, 17  
Applicant #2**

* * *

Lights equal bad.

There are lights.

This is bad.

That's basically how his brain has been working since he finally dragged his sorry ass out of the building, long after Emmi had left him there. He had passed by the Sentinel's body and then Gideon's out back because he had nearly tripped over it beside the well.

There was more blood than there had any right to be for a single gun shot, splattered all over the ground.

No one could tell him what it was from though.

He had found more signs of civilization in the past sixteen hours than he ever had when Damas and Verity were still around. No food or water, but he didn't really need that now. Just buildings. More of them than he really wanted. Buildings hid things.

Buildings were bad?

He couldn't really decide. He was still working in very simple equations.

He ends up laying on the floor in one of the buildings on the outer fringe, closest to the mountains, staring out the hole in the roof because it was helping him ignore the incessant throbbing in his wrist and where his hand no longer was. It still sort of felt like he had one.

No matter how many times he checked, though, it hadn't spontaneously grown back.

He couldn't get that lucky.

He would think the stars overhead were pretty if he cared about the stars for even a second.

When he hears the car he doesn't even react. For someone not wearing a tracking bracelet it sure seems like they know where he is. What, are they stalking him? Have they known this whole time, screwing with him for their own amusement?

He sits up, pressing his hand into his throbbing temples. He can't see outside much - the window is too high for him to see anything other than the rooftops next door and the sky above, and the door is around the corner, in the entrance hall.

He should probably at least see who it is and where they are.

Shuffling over to the door seems like the best bet so that's exactly what he does, wiggling over to the entrance on his knees. He stops at the single cracked stair, holding the door-frame to lean a little ways out. There is indeed a car although it's quite a ways away still, several streets away. Still, the headlights cut a wide swath through the darkness, angled just past the house he was in now.

Okay, so he should probably go. That would be smart.

He crawls back to the window and brushes the last of the glass of the sill before he pulls himself over it, tucking his wrist against his chest just before he lands with a thud in the dirt below. He's up just as quick as he fell, diving behind a thicket and under a broken fence railing, hurrying across the road before the headlights turn in his direction.

It's a big place. He could definitely find a better place to hide, somewhere they won't think to look. Maybe his appearance as a rightfully dead man will shock them all into leaving him alone.

Unlikely, but he doesn't want to think about fighting a Sentinel a second time. He probably wouldn't win again.

He waits until the headlights disappear again, turning a corner in the opposite direction. Maybe they really haven't seen him. If they can't track him and they didn't follow him here in the first place, then they have no idea of his whereabouts.

There's a building across the next road, bigger than the others.

More places to hide.

He steps onto it, the cracked pavement still warm underfoot, and a car roars around the corner. It stops some ten feet away from him with an ear-splitting screech, two people eyeballing him from the front seats.

Well, that's a problem.

And those definitely aren't Sentinels.

"Why are you here too?" he shouts. " _Why?_ "

It's loud but he doesn't have the frame of mind to care. Soran sort of looks like he wants to laugh. Icarus looks vaguely concerned, but so is he. In fact, he's a lot concerned.

He looks back, but the other car is gone from view. That doesn't mean it's gone for good. In fact, with these two here, it's even more likely that they're going to come back. Come back and do what, he doesn't want to know.

Soran rolls down the window at a snail's pace. "Why are you still alive?"

"Why are _you_ still alive?" he fires back. "Why are you still alive and _together_ of all things?"

He probably shouldn't attempt to figure that out. No, what he needs to decide is what he's going to do, exactly. Run? Run where, exactly? They're going to follow him, presumably. They're both bruised and covered in blood, and he doesn't think either of them would pass up killing him.

This is karma coming back for him, no doubt about it.

He has the gun. Should he try and shoot at one of them? Does he even have the aim?

"There's someone else here," he tells them. "Sentinels, I think."

"How many?"

"I didn't fucking find out!" he says wildly. "At least one!"

"We can handle one. Handled one, actually."

Percy almost retorts an angry _I have too!_ but it's not all the way true, and he's not proud of it anyway. Besides, if they did it too it doesn't look like they came out of it unscathed. Far from it, really, if all the injuries he can see are from that one fight. There's a lot here going on, and he could make it worse with just a few words. He's already in deep enough shit - he doesn't need more.

"Are you going to kill me too?" he asks, and watches them share a look. What, are they communicating telepathically now? When the hell did that development occur?

"Where's the Sentinel?"

He points off, at least, in the direction he last saw the car. "That way."

Soran appears to consider that, following Percy's finger to a point in the distance, where the car may or may not be anymore. He's not so sure.

"Thanks," Soran says slowly. "I think I will, then."

"Will what?"

They both look at him, eyes flat. As if to say _what, are you stupid?_

Oh. Right. They're definitely going to kill him, or at least try.

Yeah, he does feel sort of stupid.

And this is very, very bad.

* * *

You know, a strangely high amount of people voted for Jay on the current poll for this to happen immediately after. At least _I_ thought it was funny! Please note that I'm only laughing because I loved that kid (along with Sabre) more than I love myself and I'd be crying if not. That poll is still open if you want to get in on it.

Anyway, final five is here, and only two more chapters to go until the Games are finished. If you have any thoughts, time is running out for you to say them. Speak now or forever hold your peace.

Until next time.


	35. Armistice

XXXII: Day Nine, Midnight.

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16**  
 **Applicant #17**

* * *

"So, what's the plan?" she asks dully.

Her brain is still moving at a sluggish half-speed, if that, chugging along aimlessly. Emmi's must be moving faster, or maybe that's just the speed of the truck tricking Ria's brain into thinking otherwise. Emmi seems to be thinking rather clearly if she's being honest, murder and all.

She did it so easy. Ria thinks about every minuscule detail, every second of screaming and blood, and Emmi just _did it_ like it came easier than breathing.

If this was how most of the victors felt afterwards, then she feels even worse for them than she did before. And on top of all of that she hasn't even won.

She's not even sure winning is an option. It doesn't feel like it is.

"What plan?" Emmi responds finally, keeping her eyes focused ahead as they wind their way out of the mountains, towards the lights in the not-so distance.

She looks over at her. "You said..."

"I know what I said. I said I needed help, not that I had a plan. You just seemed like the type of person to respond to the idea of a plan better than me spewing bullshit."

"Was that... not what were you doing?"

Emmi laughs, but it sounds strained. "I do that a lot. I just needed you to come with me."

"For what?"

"To come up with a plan in the first place. Correct me if I'm wrong, but you were the one who worked at the traps a lot, right? With those stupid fake explosives and snares they had."

"Yeah."

"Good. 'Cause I have a lot of people I want to kill."

She blinks. "I don't... I don't think I want to kill the other three people."

"Never said that's what we were going to do."

Her fingers are digging into the worn leather of the chair as if she's been bracing for something all along - maybe that was it, finally. Her brain starts to come up with half a dozen options, every direction under the sun.

"The Sentinels?" she settles on finally, voice quiet.

"That would be ideal. Listen, I really don't want to die and I'm guessing you don't either. There were ten of them - Carnelia and nine others. I know at least two are dead already. If we could figure something out, maybe rig something up, then we could get out of here. Even if we don't kill them all we could distract them long enough to get to a border, get some damn help."

"You really think that's possible?"

"I have no idea if that's possible. It just seems pretty likely that we're going to die if we continue what we're doing, so even if it goes south..."

"It's no different," she finishes. "I made a bomb. It worked. Killed a lot of people, I think."

"You think?"

"I didn't stick around to find out."

"Fair enough. So you could do it again, then?"

She could answer _yes_ right away without so much as a second thought, because chances are she could, but it's not that simple. All of the supplies she used to build the first bomb are depleted or non-existent, not to mention the fact that Tarquin had to die from the proximity of it, the fire and the imminent collapse of the tunnel.

No, if they both want to survive, and better yet get the other three to survive as well, then they need something bigger. Better.

More survivable, at least for them.

"Would you be willing to give up the car?"

Emmi gives her a pointed look. "You've got one shoe on and you want to walk to the border? I know it's only a few miles away, but really?"

She never did find the shoe she wedged off of her swollen ankle. Who knows where it ended up. She's still in pain, but she'd rather walk on it and take her chances than risk her life on one gamble.

"If we could find another car..."

"Well, we're headed towards this town. Could be one there."

"Okay. A fire would be a good way to get their attention, get them all in one place? I've got matches."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Emmi says, and for the first time in a long time Ria feels even an ounce of relief wash over her. "And then what? We use a car to...?"

"Find some rope or some cord, attach it to the fuel tank. Light the rope. Park our car a ways away. We'll still have to be pretty close to it to lure them in. Unless..."

"Unless what?" Emmi asks. The car slows - she hasn't dared to slow it down so far.

Maybe they're starting to come to an understanding.

"I could get your bracelet off, maybe. We could leave it in the new car. When I got mine off the screen still worked, so I guess the tracking would too."

"Too damn smart," Emmi mutters. "I feel like you don't get much credit for it."

She didn't much, not before she was here. People in Three are just inherently smart, fitting the stereotype to a perfect tee. No one notices it because it's commonplace - it's the stupid things that get called out and put on bulletin boards, the people that can't quite make it who are marked for something.

Mel said it, Meris said it.

Emmi said it now.

People here care, suddenly. No one really has before.

It does feel sort of nice. Nicer than she expected.

"Alright, so we're doing this then?" Emmi asks. "We'll get into town, find another car, set up shop when we find somewhere we like. You'll get this damn bracelet off, we'll lure some assholes in, and then we'll blow the place up?"

"And then we find the others," she reminds her, quietly.

"And then we find the others," Emmi repeats. "If we pull this off, we'll be fucking heroes."

Her lips actually hurt when she smiles. They're so dry and cracked it's a miracle they're not bleeding. She has Tarquin to thank for that really, for keeping her alive. So now she has to do this, but not just for him. For everyone that she lost, everyone else that's gone too.

It's like Emmi said - they're probably going to die anyway.

There's no harm that can be done that hasn't been already.

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17**  
 **Applicant #10**

* * *

Percy takes off.

Predictably, Soran slams his foot down on the gas so quickly that if Icarus wasn't prepared he would have went flying out the windshield.

But he was. Soran is turning out to be predictable in the weirdest ways.

"You're not going to be able to hit him!" he forces out. Percy dives off the road and into the narrow gap between two buildings, and Soran turns the corner next to the larger of the two.

"Have a little faith."

"I'd prefer to not have Percy splattered on the windshield for the rest of our days!"

God, even imagining that... nope, he's good. Why did he do that?

"Then take this," Soran insists. He pops the door open. There's a sudden rush of wind and Icarus lunges across the middle console to take a hold of the wheel as Soran lets go of it, jumping out of the car in a move that no doubt can't be good for his current physical state. The car rolls to a stop a few seconds later, narrowly missing the side of one of the buildings as he steers it back into the middle of the street.

He nearly trips over himself in his haste to get out of the car. Judging by the sounds he can hear but not see the source of Soran has caught up to Percy, which isn't surprising.

It is worrying, though. He knew exactly what would happen if he pointed out what direction they were supposed to go - he was even in support of it, if it meant getting closer to finishing all of this. It's different when it's staring you in the face, when it's Percy of all people. He should've known it would come down to the two of them, the people who argued the most, who would have been called the most annoying.

When he rounds the corner the two of them are on the ground together. Percy appears to be trying to wiggle away from Soran's grip on his knees, the two of them looking nothing more than like two worms struggling their way out of the dirt.

It doesn't remain that way for long. Soran hooks an arm around his throat and wiggles around until he's all but sitting on top of him, pinning Percy to the dirt.

He looks up. "You know, I didn't think to grab a weapon before I jumped out."

Typical. He strides forward and offers the knife from his belt, the one that he doesn't even feel right carrying.

"C'mon," Percy wheezes. "You're not even going to give me a chance? I'll take like, a three second head start."

He's not counting the Sentinel, really, which means the last person he actually killed was Trojan, when he was lost to the heat and disoriented, fearing for his own life. He doesn't feel that way right now. Percy looks done for already.

It's different, this time, but there's nothing in his brain that says _let him go_.

Maybe he's just always been a terrible person. It would certainly explain a lot.

Soran's hand brushes against his, takes the knife. Percy struggles, throws his arms and elbows back until it connects with something. Soran doesn't budge until a stray elbow connects with his side, and his grip loosens a little bit. Icarus realizes it, though, recognizes the weakness for what it is, and grabs one of Percy's flailing arms before he can get any further.

He's really trying to ignore that there's no hand attached to his wrist.

"You're making it worse," he points out, but Percy's struggles don't lessen. Soran's clearly in pain - he can see it in his eyes, but his arm is still looped around Percy's throat, holding tight.

Once again, nothing changes.

This is the first time he feels like a murderer, really, even though the knife isn't in his hands. He's helping keep him still, crouches down beside the two of them to freeze Percy in place.

He jerks; Icarus can't see where Soran's put the knife, although judging by how little he can see it's between the two of them, somewhere in his back. His arm goes limp underneath Icarus' hand, mouth parting in silent agony, a few quiet, awful noises slipping out when Soran pulls the knife out.

He flops down between the two of them. Icarus is left the last one holding on when Soran lets him go, and he very slowly pulls his own hand back. There's not even that much blood, really. Unfortunately he's stuck looking at his face, at his deep, shuddering breath, the glare of his eyes. They don't close no matter how much he wishes he would, and he can't reach out to close them himself.

Soran's hand closes around his own side, fingers pressing in as if to lessen the pain.

It seems like that would do the opposite.

"You alright?" he asks. Soran sort of nods, flopping back in the dirt. It's weird seeing him lay alongside a body, nearly in the same position.

It makes him remember why they're doing this, really. So he hopefully doesn't _have_ to see him dead.

It takes a minute to gather the ambition, but he hauls himself to his feet, reaching out for the wall of the building as support. "Stay here."

Soran waves aimlessly after him, unresponsive. Probably trying to get his breath back. Icarus can't even begin to imagine the mess that his side really is underneath all the injuries if he's always in this much pain.

They really shouldn't sit here. Desperate or not Percy probably _was_ telling the truth about a Sentinel being around here, somewhere. He doesn't seem like the type to lie about something like that. If they are going to catch their breath though they should at least have the weapons. Those would probably help if something else were going to go down. A knife isn't going to do much.

He turns the corner headed back towards the car and someone is leaning up against it next to his wide open door, lounging about examining their filthy fingers.

There's only two people left other than him and Soran, and this person is decidedly not either of them.

He knew Percy wasn't a liar.

Suddenly he completely understands what Soran must have been feeling, alone, confronting a Sentinel face to face. Sure, Soran is just behind him, but the terror is strong. It's all he can feel.

The man is holding a knife. He doesn't even look when he throws it.

Icarus dives out of the way. And it's true, a knife really can't do that much.

Or at least it can't when it's outside of you, but this particular one hits him square in the thigh and sinks all the way in.

Then, all of a sudden, it's doing a hell of a lot.

* * *

 **Soran Faerber, 18  
Applicant #8**

* * *

There's a not so distant shout.

It's right in front of him, actually.

He rolls to his feet without bracing himself for the onslaught of pain. It shoots all the way through his chest like good old times, but he pays it little mind as he half-hobbles half jogs towards the source of the sound.

That was a distinctly Icarus like noise. He's not sure how he knows that without ever hearing anything like that. It's practically instinctive.

Icarus practically slams into him as the two of them meet at the corner, grabbing at his chest to push him backwards.

"Not that way!" he manages, tripping over himself. "Definitely not that way!"

Soran blinks, and then looks down.

There's a knife sticking out of his thigh.

Well, that would certainly explain it.

Soran grabs his arm and all but hurls him back into the narrow alley but stays exactly where he is. The man pinning them down in here, away from the car, has knives. Multiple sets of them. There's a lot more than just the long, thin one in Icarus' thigh, way too many to dodge even on a good day. It really hasn't been a good day thus far.

He has _one_ knife, still wet with Percy's blood. One knife isn't going to be enough.

"Alright, stay here," he orders, ignoring Icarus' frantic response before he sprints around the corner as fast as he can.

He's got about two seconds.

A knife whistles past his head - he doesn't even make out the man himself, just a blur of black and gray as he dives past and around him for the open car door, grabbing onto the frame to haul himself inside. With one hand he reaches for the sword, abandoned on the floor, ignoring the blade as it cuts into his palm, and he fumbles for the gun in the center console with the other.

He only just grabs it when the man rips him back out of the car, the tip of a knife digging into the back of his shoulder, face and shoulder slamming into the dash before he goes. It takes everything to keep his feet under himself as he's thrown away - the gun slips through his fingers somewhere in the middle of it, landing somewhere he only knows as _in the vicinity._ He still has the sword, though, and as soon as he's free he turns the sword back on him. His fingers aren't nearly as steady as he'd like them to be.

He's smaller than the other guy, more blank-faced. Knife in each hand, no big deal. Soran's got a longer reach with the sword.

The gun has rolled up against the side of the building. Much too far for him to reach.

It was worth a shot.

"Not much of a talker," he observes. If he hadn't put a knife in Icarus already, nearly thrown him across the alley, he'd have thought the man was a knife-wielding statue.

There's a flicker somewhere to his left but he keeps his eyes facing resolutely forward, the sword pointed towards his heart.

"The other one talked more," he says. "Y'know, before we killed him."

Despite what Soran thought, there isn't even a change in the man's eyes. Maybe they care for each other less than he thought; maybe their true allegiances lie to no one and nothing, like his once did.

Another flicker. He sees Icarus round the car from behind, ducking behind the back window. Just another second or two, and then he's got it.

"I think you'll be easier," he says, because it's true.

Because he's not starting off alone, this time.

One of the knives disappears from the driver's side door. Icarus rounds the car, nearly silent save for the stilted limp, and then launches himself onto the man's back.

Soran expected him to, y'know, just _stab him_ , but that's not terrible either.

The knife in Icarus' hand misses the man's throat and slices across the line of his jaw, all the way to his ear. He howls in pain, and Soran launches himself forward with the sword, nearly crashing into both of them. The sword cuts into the other side of his face, gets shoved back by his arm when he throws it up to protect the important bits. His neck. His chest.

He rears back, slamming into the car, crushing Icarus against it. The knife has to be in his leg to the hilt now, if it wasn't already. Soran swings again, connecting with the thin flesh of his forearms. Different person entirely, but it feels like payback for his own arms, somehow.

"Head down!" he yells. "Or just let go!"

Icarus does, miraculously, listening as if it's the first time he's ever done it. He lets go and topples to the ground, dragging the man down and back a few paces before he falls. Soran watches him stumble, waits until his arms flail to catch himself up against the car, and then plunges the sword into his stomach.

It burst free from his back, splatters blood all over Icarus' face and scrapes against the side of the car with a horrifying screech, metal against metal. He leaves it there, lets go to grab him and pull him away, all but shoving him to the ground so that he doesn't fall where Icarus is just sort of sitting on the ground, wide-eyed. After a minute he flops back, making some sort of god-awful noise.

"Well, safe to say that went better than last time."

There's a thud from behind them. Fallen body.

The noises coming out of Icarus' mouth may as well be the same to an already-dead zombie, ambling around and moaning, looking for some brains to munch on. He doesn't think he should say that.

Icarus presses his fingers against the knife and nearly screeches. "How much time do you think I have left?"

"You're not serious."

"I'm very serious."

"Ten."

"Ten _what_?"

"Nine," he continues. "Eight—"

Icarus groans and throws his head back into the ground. "It _hurts,_ fuck you."

"You have a knife in your fucking leg, what did you expect?" he asks, crouching down to swat his hands away. "Stop touching it, you're making it worse."

"How could I possibly be making it worse?"

"You make everything worse," he grumbles, because he's not sure what else to say. It's not bleeding a dangerous amount, so he definitely feels confident in saying that their experience this time wasn't nearly as bad as it could've been.

"I had one in my side," he continues. "How do you think I felt?"

"I _saw_ how you felt!" Icarus insists. "And you look like you felt pretty terrible!"

He still does, but it's a numb sort of pain now. Nothing hurts nearly as bad as before. Icarus saw first-hand just how bad he was in the immediate aftermath of it all, can see how he's still suffering for it days later.

It appears they're suffering together, now.

Icarus reaches up and pokes him in the cheek, which hurts about as much as you'd expect. "You're bleeding."

"When am I not?" He reaches up to wipe some of the blood away from his mouth, the bit that's dribbled down his chin. He must've bit down on something when his head hit the dash. It's not that bad. He's gotten used to the taste of blood the past while, bleeding in general.

It's worth it because he's alive, and there's not much else to it.

"We're still alive," he says aloud. Icarus doesn't smile, but he didn't expect him to.

"Yay," Icarus deadpans. "Now cut my leg off, please."

He sighs.

At least the dramatics are something familiar.

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17  
Applicant #13**

* * *

"You hear that?" she asks.

She had just cranked the window down a minute or two ago as they reached the town's edge. She had heard _something_ , that's for sure, but couldn't put her finger on it exactly. It had just sounded human.

Ria nods, eyes comically large, blinking owlishly as if the more she does it the quicker the source of the sound will appear.

"When you figure out how to reverse the tracking so we can find other people, let me know," she says. "That would make this a whole lot easier."

The town isn't very big, is the thing, but one or two people could be hiding _anywhere._ Inside, outside, down in a basement they don't even know exists, a lone intact rooftop. Ria looks at her bracelet as if that alone will allow it to become true, but she presses her lips together until they're white, an uneasy clench to her jaw.

"It says four, now."

Emmi twists her arm to confirm, staring at the small little four tacked into the corner of the bracelet.

So much for five.

"Well, that's great. They have to be manually updating it or something. You shouldn't even be on there," she says flatly. "Think they're here?"

"That would be awfully convenient."

"Good. I'm all for convenience right now. We've been through enough, haven't we?"

She _knows_ she has, but Ria won't tell her much. It's just what she can see, and that alone looks terrible enough. All of that coupled with the faraway look in her eyes that definitely wasn't there before... it all adds up to needing an easy, clean break.

This could be it. You know, if they actually find whoever's here. At least one person, who most likely just murdered number five.

"Keep your eyes peeled," she instructs.

"They probably just killed someone."

It's not judgmental, per say. Neither of them have any right to judge. Ria let one person burn to death. She shot someone. They've both done other things just as bad, she knows. It sounds more nervous than anything.

"We'll take it slow," she reassures. "I'd just rather us see them before they see us."

That way they can get a jump on the situation, assess it before they make a mistake and end up dead themselves. Wouldn't that be an end to their half-baked plan, dead before it even began. It would be fitting, at least. No breaks cut for them after all.

They drive through the broken down neighborhood for quite a while, cutting paths through roads that don't even look like roads anymore. It doesn't even look like an inhabitable place, really. Maybe it was just sort of a tourist town way back when. Most of the buildings are small, some adorned with little wrap-around porches riddled with multiple holes. Storefronts, maybe, except there are no signs to indicate it. Around and around they circle, looking for any sign of something that doesn't belong, a person or a car in an otherwise dead place.

"Look down there," Ria says quietly. There's a car idling in the middle of an intersection, lights still on and cutting a path to the next road over. There's no one around it, though, no signs of life.

"There's another one on the next block," Ria points out. Emmi carefully turns down the road, though the truck is chugging loudly enough that anyone within the next mile would be able to hear it. There's no being subtle here. There won't be any element of surprise from their end.

"Is that someone behind it?"

"I think so. I can't tell if it's only one."

Neither can she, really, no matter how hard she squints. It looks like there's a shadow of a person in the gap between the car's bed and the ground, as if they're sitting down or laying in the dirt. There might be another person there too but she can't tell. They're not moving much, just occasional little twitches. Not enough to be two distinctive people, but appearances are deceiving.

"So..."

She gets out of the car. Ria's voice cuts off quickly at that, and when Emmi looks back she's clamped her mouth shut, watching uneasily as Emmi steps out into the road. They're maybe fifty feet away. Hopefully that's enough distance.

"I know you've heard us already, so I've got nothing to lose!" she shouts. "And I'm assuming you just killed someone, so I don't want to get to close. But I want you to hear me out."

She hears the shuffling long before anything else. A hand creeps over the car's hood and then Soran's head pops up, just the tops of his shoulders visible.

"Why would you think that?" he asks, a very terribly bloody smile on his face.

She should've expected someone like him, honestly.

"Well, you came in first after you shot Kidava in the face, so..."

"Killed her in real life, too." He shrugs. "Doesn't mean anything."

Beside her Ria blanches. She would too if she hadn't killed four people herself. It really is four, too. She hadn't even realized until now. Arwen counts whether she wants her to or not, because _something_ needs to haunt her. Something always does.

"Are you alone?" she asks.

"What's it to you?"

"Well, I want to live."

"And I don't?" he asks. "I'm pretty sure _she_ wants to live too, but she's not talking."

Ria looks like she wants to dig a hole and die in it the second Soran looks in her direction, so maybe that's not entirely the truth. She hasn't even moved to follow Emmi out, not that she wants or expects her to. Soran could probably flatten her even though he looks pretty terrible himself. It definitely looks like he's been throttled recently, but then again he probably deserved it.

Awful thinking, but it's true.

"I want us all to live. All four of us. I was thinking five sounded good, but I'm pretty sure you killed whoever that was."

"You would be correct. So you want the _four_ of us to live - what's your deal?"

"She thinks she can rig up some sort of explosion to kill the Sentinels, if we can draw them all in close enough," she says, nodding back at Ria, who sinks a few inches lower in her seat. Any more and she'll disappear altogether.

"And then what?"

"We go and get some help?" she says obviously. "Find the fourth person, and—"

"He's right here."

"What?"

"He's right here," Soran repeats. "Laying on the ground and quite disgruntled if I do say so myself, but he won't let me take the knife out of his leg so maybe you'll have more luck convincing him."

She blinks. Was that... agreement, or Soran screwing with her? There's the possibility of both, no doubt about it. She still can't even tell that there's two of them back there and won't have any way to tell unless she goes over there.

Oh well. Guess she is.

Ria finally scrambles out of the car when Emmi crosses the road and makes her way over. She should be cautious, which would be the logical thing to do, but she's thrown that out of the window. Hell, she did that a long time ago. Soran's disappeared now as well, presumably back on the ground with whoever else is laying back there, as long as he's telling the truth.

She rounds the car and stops, taking in all the sights. It's more than she expected. There's a very dead body judging by the gaping whole in his chest. Definitely a Sentinel. It's a surprise, honestly, but a welcome one. That's terrible too but she really doesn't care.

"Do not touch me, just let me die in peace," Icarus snaps, looking up at her. "I swear to God."

She stares at the knife sticking out of his leg. "If you're dying from _that_ then I'm dead already."

"Join the fucking club," Soran mutters. She continues looking around, searching out whoever the two of them must have just killed, but can't spot them anywhere. That's for the best, really. She's not sure she wants to know.

She gets where Soran's going with this, though. Ria inches her way up behind them and then turns right back around at the sight of the knife, looking off the other way.

She nudges Icarus in the shoulder with the tip of her shoe, and he reaches back wildly to hit her, missing spectacularly.

"Seriously," she says flatly. "Get over it."

"Get over it!" he cries. "I have a fucking—"

Soran grabs the hilt and pulls the whole thing out in one swift movement, reaching up with his other hand to clamp it over Icarus' mouth before the choked scream can escape. She still hears it but it's muffled in the very least.

"Is it out?" Ria asks.

"Yeah."

Soran removes both hands and tosses the knife into the dirt alongside them. Icarus goes from screaming to a whole chorus of swearing, spewing profanities that she hasn't even heard before. At this point he must be making up words just for the sake of it. He probably just likes the sound of his own voice, the same way Winnie did except infinitely more annoying.

She'll take annoying, though. This is the four of them. It's a very odd four.

But it's what they've got.

"So, details," Soran says. "In the next like, five minutes or I'll change my mind and start killing someone."

"Very forthcoming of you," she says. "But don't look at me."

Ria has finally turned around although is pointedly looking over all of them, towards some point in the distance. There's really not _that_ much blood but it appears that even the slightest amount isn't ideal for her. All of the color drains from her face once again when Emmi looks back at her, and then both Soran and Icarus in turn. For all of her obvious issues with blood there's certainly a lack of it in her face when all of them look at her.

Emmi really can't imagine this going well, but like she said, it's all they've got.

They might as well start now.

* * *

Leave it to me to try and pull some last minute bullshit that _definitely_ can't go wrong whatsoever, am I right?

Guess you'll have to wait until next week to find out.

Until next time.


	36. The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

XXXIII: Day Nine, Early Morning.

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17**  
 **Applicant #10**

* * *

Every single part of him is just throbbing.

His leg worst of all, predictably, but his head too and the space behind his eyes, his fingertips when he presses his fingers even remotely close to the gash in his thigh.

His brain is throbbing because of all of this nonsense; first Percy and then the Sentinel, now Emmi showing up and spewing off things about a plan it doesn't even look like she entirely understands. Ria is the only one who looks mildly convinced of this so-called plan's integrity, but she's also the one that's going to have to execute it.

"So, let me get this straight," he says. "You're going to blow up our car?"

"Ours is in better shape."

"That car is my home," Soran says.

"This is exactly why I called you a homeless person," he reminds him, and Soran scoffs. "Seriously, though, that truck is a piece of shit."

"Yours has a bigger gas tank," Ria says. "And more gas in general."

"So..."

"Bigger boom," she explains, which is the dumbed-down version for his sake. She probably has a long-winded, technical explanation for it that he wouldn't understand a word of, so he doesn't bother asking. Besides, she looks too busy, fiddling around with Emmi's bracelet and pulling out pins from it, lighting matches that get far too close to anyone's skin for Icarus' liking.

He looks to Soran, who is also watching with a half-hearted interest. "Yours is next."

"Maybe not," Ria murmurs.

"Excuse me?" he asks. "I got mine off without you, I can get his too."

"That's not what I'm saying," Ria says, eyes betraying her sudden nervousness. "I just... I don't know that the tracking still works once it's off, and we need them to be able to find us, so we might want to leave his own for a while.

"Alright," Soran says, getting to his feet, as if it's that simple. "What do you need? Rope? How much?"

"Enough to get away before the car explodes."

"Lots, got it. Anything else?"

"Gas, if you can find it. Not necessary but it would be useful."

He gives a thumbs up on his way out of the alley but Icarus is the only one looking, the only one that sees it.

Apparently the only one who cares.

He waits a few moments before he gets up and follows him at a painfully slow limp, trying not to look too desperate in the middle of all of this. Sure, he's chasing after him seconds after he left almost as if he doesn't want to be left alone with these too, but it can't look that terrible.

Soran's pace is stellar, though, when it hurts to even take a step.

"Can you slow down for a second?" he calls after him, and Soran stops dead in the middle of the road until Icarus can catch up to him. He grabs him by the arm, stopping his forward momentum the second he sees Icarus by his side.

"Are you actually okay with all of this?"

"You're gonna have to be more specific."

"They're tracking _you_. Just you."

"What does it matter? We're all together anyway."

"Exactly!" he hisses. "You don't think they know that if we're all together, not killing each other, that we're trying to pull a fast one on them?"

Soran rolls his eyes. "I'd hope they have the mental capacity to assume that, yeah."

"Listen to me," he insists, and shakes his arm like that's going to help. "If they really do show up, you're going to be the easiest one to find."

"And?"

He releases his arm to press his hands into his eyes until it hurts, beyond exasperated. "Do you ever actually listen to me?"

"More than you'd probably think."

"Then actually hear me! If they find you first, and it's all of them, you're going to die."

Soran actually has the gall to look mildly offended at that, and if it wouldn't hurt him Icarus would grab him by both shoulders and jerk him back and forth until something properly aligned in his brain for once. He just doesn't understand that he's in a level of danger no one else really is, that he's already hurt and vulnerable, that Icarus has gotten to the point where he really doesn't want him to die after all of this.

"Have some faith in me," Soran says.

"I'd like to, but—"

"But nothing," Soran interrupts. "Neither of us are going to die, you know why? Because we're going to find some rope and whatever else she needs and we're going to set this all up _before_ they get here. Not stand around talking in the middle of the street until the fucking sun comes up like we're waiting for them to run us over. Okay?"

"Before they get here," he mutters. "Hopefully."

"We will. You take that side of the street, I'll look through this one."

"The last time I left you alone you got your ass handed to you."

"You're going to be thirty feet away from me."

Soran turns and heads away, ducking into the building directly to their right. He turns likewise, limping his way to the building ten paces down the road, two stories high. He really doesn't want to do stairs right now.

Just as he ducks into the building he sees Ria in the street, picking her way through the tangle of brush at the side to head after Soran. She probably doesn't _want_ to follow Icarus after all - he's not the one willingly helping, the active participant. With her out there it means she most definitely got Emmi's bracelet off. The number on Soran's bracelet was still stuck on four; thing's definitely broken, or maybe they're being screwed with. Most likely both.

He's definitely being screwed with, for one. Is he the only one that thinks this could go remotely wrong? Sure, he's never been the most optimistic of people, but this has to be a new low for the course of his brain.

Besides, this first building he's in has approximately fuckall in it. Are they even going to find what they need? Rope seems like a pretty simple thing, you would assume, but when paired with a not-so simple task it suddenly grows in convolution.

He just has to think about what Soran said. They have to do this fast, before the Sentinels get here. One's already dead in the alley behind them, their doing.

How many more were there? How many people do they still need to kill?

To be honest he can't even recall that day, sitting in that tiny, almost classroom like environment, staring at them all in front of him. There were more than he would have liked, but he can't recall a number. It wouldn't be that easy. What he remembers most of all is Soran looking Carnelia in the eye, unflinching, and it feels like that all just led up to this.

And he can't help himself from staring out the lone broken window, either, as if it's already happening.

As if on cue, there's a noise from across the road. The sound of something falling over or breaking. It's loud in the otherwise deathly silence.

What's worse is the scream two seconds after. A noise he knows for a fact didn't come out of Ria's mouth. Who knows where Emmi is, either.

He knows exactly who that came from, tragically.

He trips out of the side door to the building and nearly faceplants in the dirt in his haste to get back across the road. Thirty feet, Soran said, like thirty feet wasn't too bad. How bad could it really be?

Bad, evidently.

The scream cuts off quickly, as does any other source of noise. By the time he staggers into the building across the road he's prepared himself for the worst thing he can possibly imagine. In it's head, it isn't pretty.

Upon first glance, it doesn't look anywhere near that bad.

Soran's on the ground, that much is clear. There's a little shelf knocked over in front of him like he hit it on his way down; Ria is hovering over him, anxiously flailing her hands back and forth, not doing much of anything. And there's blood, too, not very much but more than there has any right to be considering he left him alone for _five fucking minutes._

"What did you do?" he snaps, rushing to crouch by his side. Soran doesn't move, forehead pressed to the concrete, but Ria leaps back, eyes wide.

"I didn't do anything! I think— I think it's shocking him, I don't—"

That theory is proven exactly right when he puts a hand on his shoulder to do... nothing, really, and something shocks him so severely that he rips his hand away with a yelp. Soran goes still, abruptly, all the convulsions stopping at once.

All the blood is coming from his wrist, from somewhere underneath the bracelet.

"Okay, yeah, you need to get it off," he says. "I don't care what you think—"

"I think those pins are burrowing into his skin!" Ria cries. "I can't do anything about that!"

He can't even see to tell if that's the truth. The blood is coming faster by the second. Soran's biting so hard into his lip that there's blood from there, too, and he reaches forward to grab his wrist.

"Don't," Soran chokes. "Don't, don't—"

He feels it again, a second before it starts. The tremor, the beginning of the current, and this time he _hears_ it too, the irritating buzz of the electricity a second before Soran convulses again as it pulses all the way up his arm and into the rest of him. He can't even hold on long enough to do anything before it hurts too bad, ripping his hand away once again.

"What the fuck is going on?" Emmi asks from the door, and he whirls around for a few seconds before he settles back on Soran, who looks as if he's about to pass out any second now.

"Get it off," he manages, once the electricity stops again. "Just—"

"It's digging into your fucking arm, what do you want me to do?"

"Get if off," he repeats, voice edging into desperation. He hooks an arm under his chest as he goes to collapse to the ground, finally.

"Knife," he says, unsure of what he's going to do with one just yet but knowing that he has to do something beyond anything else. "Someone—"

Emmi all but slaps a knife into his other hand, quicker than even he expected.

"Oh my God," Ria mumbles.

"Go find some fucking rope instead of just standing there!" he yells finally. "They obviously know we're doing _something_ if they're trying to kill him already; we need to do this now. _Go."_

She disappears quicker than any human being has any right to, which leaves Emmi standing there staring at him actually slightly concerned, for once.

"What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know."

"You can't hold onto him," she insists, taking a few steps closer. Just as she says it he feels it again, another buzz followed by a bout of electricity, and it shoots right through Soran's chest and into the arm he has hooked around it. It fucking paralyzes him, makes all his muscles lock tight and he wants to scream but can't even manage that.

Emmi tugs him away, finally, none too gently, and he watches Soran faceplant with a thud into the ground, his more intact arm failing to catch him on the descent.

He spends a few seconds gasping once the electricity is gone until he has a voice again. "I need to... I can't get it off, he'll keep moving."

"Then do it quick before it happens again."

He can't even see how many pins there are that must be digging into his skin. Ria pulled one out of Emmi's bracelet, maybe an inch long, in order to get the clasp open. There has to be more than that for there to be this much blood, but how many really? The metal is locked tight around his skin, reddening the exposed skin where it's not covered in blood.

He waits for it to happen again, for the electricity to snap back on as if it's working through a loop. This time Soran barely moves, as if his body no longer has the energy to fight it.

And then as soon as it stops, he digs the knife into his skin.

There's no space between the bracelet and his wrist. The blade slices into skin, spills more blood out over the pavement. He hears receding footsteps, vaguely, but is too focused on wedging the blade up between metal and skin until he creates a big enough space to wedge two of his fingers into. He can feel one of the pins, only slightly bigger than a needle, and drags it back until it rips free of his skin. The bracelet stays, though.

Of course there's more than one.

He gets one more out before the next bout of electricity, and this time Soran chokes out another awful noise, worse than the scream he heard from across the road because it sounds so drained, so weak already.

There's only one left. He can see it, where it's digging into the underside of his wrist. He wedges the knife in again, rips open more skin. This time he has the dig the tip of the knife all the way in to even loosen it.

"Don't pass out," he says, for his benefit or Soran's own, he's not sure. He just says it while he can still see his eyes open.

The pin pops out, tears another hole in his wrist. With nothing left to hold it shut the bracelet all but falls apart, metal tinkering to the ground between them.

"Okay," he says. "Okay, okay, fuck."

He drops the knife. There's so much blood it's overwhelming to look at, and he's not sure what caused more of it. Him, or the bracelet itself. He just cut ribbons into his skin to get it off.

He wraps one hand around the worst of the gashes there and grabs his jaw with the other, forcing his head up. His eyes are hardly open.

"You're okay," he says, even though he doesn't really believe it. Soran shakes his head, sort of, but his head really just weakly lolls into Icarus' hand and then stays there, not doing much of anything.

"I can't feel my hand," he mumbles, all the words jumbled together. "It's numb."

"That's okay," he answers, even though that's definitely not okay. What did that thing just do to him - what did _he_ just do to him?

"Here," Emmi says, and he jolts. She drops her bag nearly on him, holding up some scrap of clothing that he can't put a name to, and then pulls Soran's arm from his slippery grip to wrap the fabric all the way around it. It's truly telling that he doesn't even put up a fight, laying there unmoving when she passes his arm back, when he wraps his fingers around again and presses as hard as he can.

"I think Ria found something," she adds. "She was halfway down the road, I couldn't really understand her."

"Okay." It feels like he's said that a lot without ever having a reason for it. "Okay?"

"I'm gonna go help her. If she has the rope we'll set it up. Just stay here with him."

He nods, dumbly, until she gets up and leaves the both of them, the bag abandoned by his side. It looks like there's a first-aid kit in there that she left for them. That'll probably be helpful once the bleeding stops.

If it stops.

"Is then when you say I told you so?" Soran gets out. His jaw is still tense under Icarus' hand.

"I don't like hearing you like this. Stop talking."

"Like what?"

"Shut up."

Soran mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like _rude_ but he can't really tell, is stringing together coherent sentences for him as is. He can feel his pulse, too fast, but at least it's not gone. He has that.

Little victories?

He really hates this.

"I hate this," he says aloud, and Soran hums in agreement, which seems easier than talking. Don't get him wrong, he _wants_ to hear the sound of his voice, likes the reassurance that he's well and alive, but it just sounds too off. He can't even remember what Soran sounded like nine days ago because he's grown so used to this awful version instead, the one that suffers and lies at Icarus' feet in agony because he has no other option.

Blood is starting to soak through whatever it is that he's holding onto.

"I told you so," he lets himself say, finally, but the tension in his chest doesn't release like he expected it to. Soran smiles and he feels it, sees all the blood in his teeth and heavy on his tongue.

Icarus can taste it too. He doesn't think he should be able to.

It's all they're made of, these days.

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17**  
 **Applicant #13**

* * *

"I got it!" Ria shouts, waving two lengths of rope in her hands as if Emmi can't fucking _see it._ "I got it! Is he—"

"Alive, yes, and I will confirm nothing else," she interrupts. "Let's go."

Ria works really well when she has a task, especially one that no one else is even close to being an expert in. Her being frazzled right now is something Emmi needs approximately zero of, not when they have something to do.

"If we tie them together they'll definitely be long enough. Whoever lights it will just have to be fast."

"So me, great," she mutters. "Any gas?"

"No. We can use some extra from one of the cars and douse them, though."

She really didn't want to be the one to light the damn thing. To be honest she was hoping Soran would do it, but that's definitely not happening now. Icarus is limping like it's his honest to god job and although Ria isn't, anymore, she's still not walking as fast as Emmi knows she could be, and whether that's because of the swelling or the fact that she's only in possession of one shoe, Emmi isn't sure.

"I'll need to move the truck down the road, first, and then I can park the two others close together. That should work, right?"

"Even bigger boom," Ria agrees. "When the first one goes it should light up the other one too."

"Sounds great to me. You good here?"

Ria nods, jittery, but her hands are already working at the ends of the two different lengths of rope, tying the beginning of a series of knots even as they approach the cars once again. Emmi leaves her to it and hops back into the truck and turns it the other way down the road, searching out a good place to tuck it away, somewhere not too far.

She ends up wedging it in the narrow gap between two buildings, such a tight squeeze that she touches both the nearest wall and the car door on her way out, inching her way back into the open road. There's a very disgusting looking dumpster at one end, half-blocking the car from view. They could still get out that way, if need be, but you'd have to look closely to even know it was there.

There's no sign of movement from Soran and Icarus' end - she stares at their little building on the way by but is too zeroed in on Ria pulling the coil of rope back out of the gas tank to wonder what could possibly be going on, gas splattering all over the ground.

She makes sure not to distract her, watches her loop the rope around the gas cap and then the outer panel before she starts backing up with it in her hands. The rope, at most, is twenty-five feet long when she finally stops and sets the end gently on the ground, as if it's dangerous already.

Then again, it really is.

"You got matches?" she asks, which feels like something she should have asked _first,_ but Ria steps over the rope and gently drops a half-empty matchbook in her hands, gnawing on her lip.

"Wouldn't have suggested this if I didn't."

"Right," she says. "I'm gonna move the other car. Where to?"

"More into the alley, but leave a gap so they can still get in to check it out. The fire should trap whoever comes in the alley."

And her, too, because it's a dead end in the other direction. She checked, which also came with the lovely discovery of Percy's one-handed corpse.

Soran's insistent that part wasn't his doing; she doesn't have the energy to tell him that she knows, that she saw Percy alive and breathing not all that long ago.

It hurts too much to admit for someone she hardly knew at all.

"You can cut through the building on the left side and get back out into the road," Ria says, like a god-damned mind reader. "We'll probably have to wait in the building anyway, to make sure it works."

"And what if it doesn't?" she asks. "What if it doesn't kill them all, or if they're not close enough?"

Emmi won't lie - she's pretty damn confident in this plan for someone who was as good as dead nearly a week ago, lying in the bottom of a canyon with a tree branch stuck in her side. But there's still that thought in the back of her mind regardless. What are they going to do, if there's still enemies left alive after all of this?

"You have a gun," Ria says.

"So do Soran and Icarus."

She swallows. "You might want to make sure they're like... ready to shoot, or whatever. I guess."

"Locked and loaded," she mutters, and Ria gives her a terribly awkward thumbs up, mouthing those words under her breath a few times as if she wished she had started there to begin with. They all probably wish they could have said something different, at this point, or done something sooner, later, anything that would have made all this better.

"I'm gonna go get them," Ria says quietly. "If you wanna keep watch."

"Sounds good to me."

Ria quickly turns, hands shoved in her pockets. Her gait is so awkward it's almost hilarious to watch, the uneven angle of her legs with one shoe on and one missing, the swollen curve of her ankle.

"Hey!" she calls after her, and Ria stops in the road. "How the hell are you alive?"

It's rich, coming from her. She shouldn't be alive either. But she is, miraculously, and so is Ria. The four of them are practically walking miracles.

"Tarquin," Ria says, and nothing else, and her lip is already bloody when she goes to gnaw at it once again so she shoves a finger in her mouth instead, gnawing at the skin around her nails. Emmi doesn't expect anything else, and she doesn't get it either. It's clear that Tarquin isn't alive, definitely was when he somehow saved her life. She saw the antivenom firsthand. That came from somewhere.

It's beginning to sound more and more like Tarquin died because of that missing _somewhere._

Ria turns to go once again. This time, she lets her. There's no point in asking any more questions.

They've all got ghosts, now. Multiples that are lurking after them, following them down every road and watching their every movement. After today they could have a hell of a lot more, and she hopes that's the case.

Ghosts are one thing. Dying is another. She'd rather have the ghosts.

She's sure all of them would answer the same way at this point.

* * *

Emmi sits on the roof for the better part of two hours.

Not enough for the sun to rise. No, it's still pitch black, which is sort of nice. It feels safer.

She pulled the car around like Ria suggested and climbed on the roof, got comfortable when she saw Icarus drag Soran out of the building across the road with Ria hovering at their heels. It was clear none of them were going to do it.

She had to do everything around here, _obviously._

Ria last came out an odd forty-five minutes ago presumably to check on her but hadn't said anything, disappearing as quickly as Emmi laid eyes on her. It's Ria that appears this time once again, leaning away from the broken door to find her once again.

"What are the other two doing?"

"Icarus is taking a nap, I think, and Soran's been staring at the wall for an hour."

"A nap," she says slowly. "Why am I not surprised?"

Ria shrugs. "He looked pretty tired."

"We're all tired," she mutters. If she has to sit out here much longer she's going to insist that someone switch with her, give her a little break.

Ria doesn't leave this time like she expects her to, lingering around the back of the car, glancing across the foothills and the mountains. She looks very small wrapped in such a large sweater. Even her leg looks almost a normal size from this angle.

She feels compelled to say something, anything, but not a single word comes to mind. Emmi doesn't really know her, and if they're both going to die then there really isn't a point, is there? After, maybe, when it's safer. When it doesn't feel like it will just be ripped away from her the second she dares try.

"You see that?" Ria asks a few minutes later, and her voice is so deceptively calm that she thinks nothing of it until she looks to the left, towards two sets of lights off in the hills, pointed this way.

She stares, watches. The lights get a fraction of a hair bigger, the cars they must belong to slowly forming shape in the night.

She tosses the truck's keys back to Ria. "Wake them up."

"I don't think Soran's asleep."

"Well, get them both up, then. Up up. On their feet. One of them has to drive. You'll all beat me to the car."

Ria nods, fiddling with the keys. "If this works..."

"Thanks in advance."

"And if it doesn't?"

"I'll see you on the other side, hopefully."

She nods again, something she seems to do quite a bit of, but Emmi can't complain. The other two are just laying around - at least Ria has the decency to come out here and do anything at all.

She slips down to the front hood and then off the car, back into the dirt. Her legs tingle with feeling when she lands, but she'd take that feeling any day over being dead, and who knows how long they really have left. It may not be very long at all.

"Go back inside," she says. "Stay where I can see you."

Once again she gets a nod before Ria ducks back inside but this time she follows, just enough. The last bit of rope isn't even five feet away from the door; all she has to do is stay hidden behind the car, light the match, and then take off as fast as she can.

And then pray, really, but she'll get there.

They've got more than one bracelet for tracking, now. Hers abandoned in the front seat, Soran's dropped in the middle of the road just in front of them in case they can't quite figure it out.

They have to expect something. In reality Emmi isn't expecting much of anything with how terribly this could go. They just need a little bit of help - she can finish it off, if it comes to. Finish _them_ off. She knows everyone else will do the same if it comes to that.

She crouches down in the doorway and lights a match, experimentally, dragging it up against the side of the box until a flame lights, heat tickling against her fingertips. It would be so easy to lean forward now and do it, to turn everything into fire.

But not yet. Just a little while longer.

The flame eventually goes out of its own volition, extinguished by the wind. She tosses it behind her back into the building, far away from the dangerous trails of gas that are laid out in front of her.

Soran looks at her from the far end of the room by the back door, still with a dazed sort-of look in his eyes but with a raised eyebrow.

A question she doesn't have an answer for. _How far?_

She won't dare to get up and find out.

Emmi has no idea how long the four of them linger there in silence, until the quiet suddenly isn't so quiet anymore, the quiet, even purr of a car approaching from the south. She ducks even further into the doorway clutching the matchbook. It's impossible to see almost anything from this angle but she can still hear the two distinctive noises, two different vehicles.

Slowly, steadily, getting closer.

Her chest aches with how quiet she's keeping her breathing as if that alone will give them away. They have to know, that she's convinced of, but not everything. The extent of their plan is theirs alone.

They stop in the road ahead and finally she sees a set of wheels, just the edge, underneath their own cars. Not for much longer, hopefully. They won't be so useful when they're blown to smithereens, smoking into the night sky. It's about the most optimistic thought she's had in a while.

She waves a hand backwards, communicating something without words. It better be enough.

A person emerges from one of the vehicles, and then another from the one behind it. She can't tell who, isn't sure it matters anyway. They all need to die regardless of who they are. A face doesn't matter. She just needs to wait for as many of them to get close as possible.

They don't even know how many there are. Just as many as humanly possible.

She inches out of the doorway at a snail's pace, practically dragging herself through the dirt. They won't be able to see her here as long as they all stay on their feet, as long as they don't come around this way to investigate.

The rope is still faintly damp with gas, snaking away through the dirt and then into the gas tank up above her, hanging ominously overhead.

It's a good thing she doesn't have to get that close.

Finally another pair of legs. That's three. She brings herself back to that room, to Carnelia Trevall lecturing them all like a goddamn school teacher. Her, the two with the red and oddly-white hair. The two other guys. Soran and Icarus got the other two. The other brunette; she killed the first. That's five. Percy and Winnie killed that other woman... is there really only six? She doesn't _know._ What if more have died than any of them know?

It's just the three pairs that she can see. Any closer and she'll have to do it regardless of numbers.

A fourth, finally. A few seconds later. The other two could be lurking about, unseen. She has the opportunity to kill four right now.

Even if there are some left... she has to take that risk. One of them is just in front of the car. A few more steps and they'll be able to see her if they come this way.

Close enough, she decides.

She strikes another match. The flame burns to life behind the shelter of her hand and she lowers it to the end of the rope, watches the fire catch and race all the way up at a breakneck speed.

Someone, she doesn't see who, glances around the edge of the car just as she lunges to her feet and takes off.

Up the single step, into the building, just in time to see the others take off out the back door.

She doesn't even make it to the door, but she didn't expect to.

Still, it happens faster than she expected.

She hears a hiss, an odd rattle.

Fire erupts behind her.

The explosion practically throws her out the door.

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16**  
 **Applicant #17**

* * *

The fireball and it's blast sends them all to the ground.

She lies on the ground winded, is there for only a second before someone grabs her and yanks her back up. She's unsure of which one of them even grabbed her, aware of only the hand around her arm and her feet back on the dirt before they let go.

There is nothing recognizable about the road behind them. Both cars have gone up, both buildings on either side. One of the Sentinel cars in the road has caught fire, too, and is burning away just the same.

Emmi picks herself up out of the road thirty feet back, dusty and bleeding. Someone practically trips out of the building behind her, half of them on fire. Hair alight, arm and both legs burning.

She puts a bullet in him, or maybe her. Ria can't even tell.

"We really should not be fucking standing here!" Icarus snaps, and one of them shoves her so hard in the back she almost falls again.

Right, get to the car. They really should do that.

She takes back off down the road. Someone else comes spinning out of the fire and falls to the ground, dead two seconds later. Another one follows but when they fall she watches some of the fire go out in the road amidst their frantic writhing.

Definitely not dead.

"Fuck's sake, go!" Icarus yells, and then practically rips the other gun out of Soran's hands. Emmi is nearly caught up to them, now. Soran grabs her, this time, and yanks her after him. She hears more bullets, dimly, several of them. Maybe Icarus is just a really bad shot.

For some reason that seems likely.

She rounds the next corner and nearly slams into the back of the car. Soran rips the keys out of her hand and practically dives into the front seat, jamming them into the ignition before he's even righted himself. She climbs into the backseat behind him, the ringing in her ears beginning to take over.

Emmi gets into the passenger seat a second later and nearly falls into the backseat with her momentum.

"Where?"

Icarus opens the door next to her and she doesn't even get a yelp out before he shoves her across the seat, so she grabs the other door and pulls herself across, letting him clamber in next to her, gun still in hand.

"How many was that?"

"I didn't stop to ask!" Emmi yells. "Just go!"

"At least four," Icarus says. "Two went up, we finished two others."

"There's six," Emmi insists.

"Are you sure?"

"Maybe?"

"Fuck's sake," Soran mutters, nearly crashing them into another building he turns the next corner so fast, urging them away from the fire. Six, four... there are two more out there, then. She spins in her seat and stares out the back window as they race to the edge of the town.

And then, finally, a car behind them. The lone intact one.

"Guys," she says nervously.

"Fuck me," Emmi says.

"Fuck _everything_ ," Soran says instead. "Do we have a plan for that?"

Once again everyone turns to look at her. She freezes, torn between looking at the car and putting her eyes back down. She doesn't know how to look all three of them in the eye at once.

"Don't ask me," she pleads. _Or even look in this direction._ There's a great chorus of swearing. Even she has to admit, it's impressive.

"It's only two," Emmi says. "We can take two. We just did."

"They were _on fire_ , that's a big fucking difference!" Icarus shouts.

"Just keep driving."

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Soran yells at her.

"Can we like, calm down?" she asks, and they look at her again, but this time as if she's grown a second head, or perhaps multiple. There's a very eerie, icy calmness deep in the pit of her stomach. Fire really has always been easier, burns nothing at all... this is just the same. There may be no burning the other two the same way, though. They can't get that lucky twice.

Because death, in this case, is the lucky option. It's odd to think of it that way.

"Okay, no, we can do this," Emmi says. "There has to be a town just outside of the valley's boundary. As long as we beat them there..."

"We stop, they kill us, and then they kill the entire town?" Icarus asks. "What sort of plan is that?"

"Do you have a better one?"

"We need to kill them now," Soran says.

"Then what's _your_ suggestion?" Emmi questions. "Because—"

She hears the squeal of the tires before the stopping force actually kicks in, and then she's thrown against the back of the passenger seat as Soran hits the breaks so suddenly that they go from speeding through the desert to almost stopped in a matter of seconds. There's a great chorus of complaints as everyone is thrown around before he turns to the back seat and takes the gun back from Icarus' hands, still clutching onto it.

"Your hands won't even stop shaking—"

Soran clearly doesn't listen; he cranks down the window and peers out for a second. A bullet slams into the metal exterior of the car and then another into the back windshield, which shatters on impact. She shrieks and dives down, hands over her head, only hoping that everyone else is doing the same.

"How close are you going to let them get?" Emmi shouts.

Close. Very close. Ria can hear the car now, even if she won't raise her head to see. She has nothing useful to offer anymore, no guns and no long range weapons. Her time has passed.

Soran hits the gas again. She feels it in the way she sways, still awkwardly hunched over, unable to do anything but sit there with her hands over her ears and pray to something that she doesn't even really believe in.

And she can still hear the car. It's right behind them.

Neither of them are driving very fast, though. Soran's not speeding along like he was before and neither is the car that's practically on top of them, approaching just as slowly as if out of sheer curiosity. Wondering, no doubt, what they could possibly be doing now after everything that's already happened. It could be any number of things, really. Even Ria doesn't know so much anymore.

"I might need you to take this," Soran says. He grabs the edge of the window, leans out a ways.

"Don't you dare," Icarus snaps.

Leaning out or not Soran hasn't lifted his foot off the gas, any. Emmi leans over to grab the steering wheel even though he's still got one hand on it, righting them slightly in the middle of the open field. The car behind them, beside them now, scraps against the bumper and then against across the door to her left. She's never heard such a noise outside of a television before.

There's no getting away from them now.

"I said—"

Icarus' words fall on deaf ears, drowned out the rest of the way by something cracking the side window in two - a bullet, probably. She dives forward again, this time nearly folded herself into the tiny space behind the back-seat as the cars scrape together once again. There's an entire chorus of shouting from everyone but her; it takes everything to clamp down the scream that rises in her throat and keep silent, trying to take in everything going on around her with nothing but her ears for help, the shift of the air around her.

There's another shout - this one is more frantic, and there's another noise that's distinctly not any of the other three people in the car, this she knows.

Icarus finally jostles her enough that she looks up, seeing nothing but a blur of him as he dives forward into the front seat to latch onto Soran's legs, who appears, to her knowledge, to be hanging half out of the window of a speeding vehicle.

Well, that certainly explains the noise.

The cars are so close together that he's launched himself clear to the other car, holding onto the edge of the open window with one hand and the person in the passenger seat with the other, decidedly not Carnelia. The only other woman left, the dark-haired one who appears to only have one hand?

She nearly considers folding herself back onto the floor.

Everyone else is practically in the driver's seat though, or at least half of them. Soran's halfway out, Icarus is keeping him from plunging out entirely, Emmi's trying to keep them going in a semi-straight line with only one hand.

Soran's pulling at her, though, as much as he can. She doesn't even know how he's still holding on.

There's some credit due for that, somewhere.

"Hold onto him!" Emmi yells, and Ria only has time to grab onto something _herself_ before Emmi turns the wheel all the way to the right - the cars split apart and finally there's silence for a mere second as the screeching stops, only for the screaming to pick back up as the momentum and Soran's grip on her arm pulls the other woman clear from the window.

There's one long, awful second in which she drops from the window and Ria almost thinks Soran's still going to hold on. Keep her from falling.

She's not sure why, because he doesn't.

Ria doesn't see her fall, doesn't see Soran let go of her. She feels it, though, the awkward bump and jerk of the car as the wheels catch her.

As they go _over_ her.

The silence as it falls, for once, isn't comforting to her in the slightest.

"Fucking get him back in here, would you?" Emmi orders. Another bullet - it just misses him. Ria leans forward if only to observe because she doesn't feel like she's doing much of anything else, watching with painstaking slowness as Icarus pulls Soran back into the car inch by inch until he's no longer dangling out by his ankles. He eventually flops back into the driver's seat half on top of everybody else, forcing Icarus back beside her.

"Is she dead?" he manages. Emmi wrenches the car forward again and he reaches back up for the wheel. Ria spins in her seat to take a long look out the back window at the shape in the dirt some ways away already, getting smaller and smaller by the second.

It's not moving. And there's still the more pressing matter of the car that's turned to follow them regardless, slowly gaining ground once again.

"Anyone got a plan for the big bad?" Icarus asks alongside her, staring out at the motionless shape in the distance the same way she is. Blank-faced, a nervous swallow here and there.

"There aren't seat-belts in here, are there?" Emmi questions. She shares a look with Soran, and something passes between the two of them, some fucked-up nonsensical thing that only people with particularly ravaged brains could come up with. Icarus all but shoves his way in-between them and even he seems to understand _something_.

"What?" she asks. Emmi looks back at the approaching car too, eyebrows knitted together.

"Those lights on the horizon are getting closer," Soran observes. "If we're gonna get her we need to do it before then."

She can see them too. Little flickers like fairy lights, not so far away anymore. They're past the border of the valley and suddenly hope exists, a possible place of safety.

They can't very well lead Carnelia Trevall into the middle of that.

"So what are we doing?" she asks, even though everyone already seems to know besides her. They're still speeding along; the car behind them is gaining inch after inch. She may not be able to shoot and drive at the same time but she's getting awfully close. Enough to chance it.

Ria can't tear her eyes away from the car, from the fading lines of the town they left behind, the silhouette of the leftover fire casting an orange glow into the sky.

"There are train tracks to our left," Emmi points out, although she hardly hears her. "The ground slopes down before. Ditch?"

"Probably," Soran mutters. "If we all die, I'm sorry. It was fun while it lasted."

"Was it?" Icarus asks.

"Not really."

Ria can feel the panic now, a handhold around her throat that's keeping her from breathing properly. Something's about to happen, something awful in the garish glow from both of their headlights.

Except... except there's a third too.

A little bit further. away Not the double glow from a car like this one or the one behind them. One single point of light that almost seems to grow bigger, as if it's coming after them as well.

The venom wouldn't produce hallucinations; that would be her only excuse for what she's seeing, even if it was still raging through her system.

Sabre's dead. She saw it happen. Jay's dead. She did that with her own two hands.

"Emmi," she says, maybe too quiet, because she gets no response for her troubles. Maybe Emmi wouldn't know either, wouldn't have an explanation for the bike that seems to be tailing them as if it's come to life itself, working when nothing else is.

It's there. Someone's there.

"Fuck my life," Soran says, which is more appropriate than sorry ever would be as he slams on the breaks, just as the ground starts to dip underneath them.

In a few split seconds, longer than they possible could be, the car goes from a breakneck speed to a second from stopped. Ria slams into the back of the seat in front of her and she bounces off it like she was thrown by something much stronger than herself. Glass cracks. Shatters. She can barely right herself or even lift up her neck to see as she goes flying about.

And so she doesn't, not in time for the impact.

The other car collides with them, right in the back. The sensation of flying is a very odd one.

She doesn't get to feel the even worse one of them slipping over the edge.

* * *

...

* * *

From far away the collision almost looks fake.

The cars together disappear from view as they slide down the hill, however deep or not it may be.

As the noise fades away, the evidence that it ever happened, it suddenly seems much more real.

There's no telling what about the disappearance makes it that much more authentic; the sudden realization, maybe, of what just happened as it hits harder than even the two cars in the first place. Of the possible death and bloodshed, worse than what they already left behind.

What they left behind was pretty terrible to begin with, as he quickly discovered. The fire and ash, the unrecognizable ruin of whatever they had done.

Whatever they were still doing, maybe, although this looked an awful lot like an ending.

It was awful, certainly, to be grateful for that. But as he paused at the top of the ridge looking down into the ditch, letting the bike roll to a stop before he got too far to come back, it reversed just enough to matter. There was still just enough awful creaking from the two ruined vehicles that things seemed just this side of too dangerous.

Really though, there's nothing he can consider too dangerous anymore. Not everything he's done, everything he's been through.

And once the vehicles finally settle into their resting place, it seems, there's still the littlest bit of movement. Life where there should be none.

He hadn't allowed himself to hope until now. Maybe that had something to do with the plastic he was certain was melted into the bottom of his feet, shoeless since the fire took them both. When something as ridiculous as that happened, nothing seemed so certain. It was all he could taste in the back of his lungs, the acrid tang of the fire and God knows what else he had breathed in during it, the charred scent of bodies and drooping skin.

He swallows as if to rid the taste before he gets off the bike and starts inching his way into the ditch, but it doesn't go away. It never has.

It never will, he assumes. Especially now that he may actually have a chance at life.

There definitely is movement, though. He grabs the back of one of the vehicles as he slides the rest of the way down, finding a spot of semi-flat ground that's not entirely covered in debris, not an easy task with his already destroyed feet.

He sees the first hint of a person crawling and dragging themselves from amidst the rubble and he comes close as ever to not properly breathing, watching them emerge inch by painful inch from the worst of the collapsed car. He's not even sure what it is that he's expecting, really, other than the worse.

It's not the worst if they're alive, is his thinking. Even if it's just one person...

There's something in his gut that already knows, though, that knew it all along even if he didn't want to believe it. It hurt too much to believe something that may not have been true all along.

His feet stay firmly planted, silent save for the occasional creak his hand pushing along the metal is causing. Predictably, awkwardly, his eyes are watering.

Finally she pulls herself free, covered in a healthy slick of blood, grabbing at every small indentation in the ground to wriggle herself into something that resembles a sitting position. He watches her reach up to pluck out a piece of glass embedded in her brow, fingers trembling.

"You shouldn't," he manages, and her body leans a bit in his direction, shifting until she looks up at him, eyes narrowed into confused slits. Her hand pauses above her brow, motionless.

She doesn't move other than that, either, blinking slowly a few times.

"Tarquin?" Ria asks, voice dreadfully quiet. "Am I dead?"

He's not so sure about that himself, really, both for her benefit and also his own.

"Surprise," he says instead, which feels simultaneously like the worst thing he could have ever said and also the only appropriate one. He doesn't move as she pulls herself up using the edge of the car; feels like he should, but he can't. Maybe there's not a lot of good he can do here after saving her life in the first place.

"Where is she?" Ria wonders. She's turned away from him again, still hunched over and clutching to her side. "Is she—"

"Who?"

"Carnelia."

"Are you telling me you killed Carnelia Trevall?"

"Are you telling me you killed all of those people and _survived_?" she asks, voice edging into hysteria. She takes a few unsteady paces further into the ditch, where it evens out at the bottom, and starts hobbling her way to the opposite car.

She sounds even more like she's about to cry than he did just a minute ago.

"Ria, hold on," he instructs, hurrying after her, sort of. It's really hard. There's definitely glass in the bottom of his feet, now, but he's still not in the shape she is. He found the abandoned bike and got here, after all. She can hardly walk and it's not hard to see why.

She all but collapses against the other car before he gets to her and he only just manages to catch her from going any further, gripping at her arm to keep her standing. Ria makes a sound not all that far away from a sob, worse because of the pain creeping in at the edge.

"Make sure she's dead," she begs. "Please—"

He crouches down at her feet, edging his way as close to the caved in front window as he can. The car is effectively upside down, at this point. The one Ria crawled out of is no better, the front end of it completely crushed in like a soda can someone left in the street.

It's so dark that he struggles to see much of anything, really. The ceiling has caved in a ways too, and he can see only the sliver of a twisted human being, motionless. An arm crushed under the remains of the dashboard, paper white.

"Was she the only one in here?"

"Soran got the other girl out," she manages, but he can hardly hear her with how far he's stuck his head inside the car, trying to see any sign of life. It's not really a proper answer, but she'd tell him if there was something endangering him.

Just Carnelia Trevall, no big deal.

What appears to be a significantly dead Carnelia Trevall, really.

He reaches out for the arm, has to pry the hand and part of the forearm out to feel along it for a pulse. He can't even feel a fully intact bone, let alone any sign of a heartbeat. He wraps his hand around the wrist, even shakes it a bit like something will flare to life.

"Aren't you supposed to be dead?" someone asks, and he has the misfortune to hit his head on the edge of the cracked window-frame on his way back out, Ria's hand tightening painfully on his shoulder. He hadn't even noticed it there.

The look on Emmi's face can only be described as vaguely disgruntled, as if someone just woke her up five minutes shy of her morning alarm. There's a garish, bright trail of blood that stops at her nose and spreads out in several more lines.

Much to his alarm, she spits out what looks like a section of one of her own teeth into the dirt.

It seems a little ironic, coming from her.

"Probably," he agrees. "But she is."

Emmi considers that, staring at him for a few heartbeats longer before she sits down on the ground with a thud and then flops onto her back.

"Emmi," Ria says, a tinge of worry to her tone.

"I'm good," she insists, waving her arm out in a general direction that only speaks right. "Icarus is gonna need some help. Like a two-armed type of help."

"Where's Soran?"

"That's why he needs help."

He hauls himself back to his feet; they definitely hurt worse than before, which says a whole hell of a lot. Ria's certainly not going to be any help right now though, and Emmi's laying there like she plans on doing it for the next century. His feet are on fire, but he can walk. He's learned that through experience.

"Stay here," he instructs, and Ria's hand slips off his shoulder as he turns to go, following the clear trail that Emmi must have kicked through the worst of the glass and metal to make her way over here. The ditch only goes a few more feet down before it curves to the left, where he rounds the car and loses sight of the two girls.

He _knew_ Icarus without really knowing him so it's not a strange sight to see him turn and look Tarquin in the eye, going from perpetually dead-inside to alarmed and looking as if he's about to bludgeon him with... nothing at all, really, in a few seconds flat. He's teetering on only one foot; the foot he's standing on is being leaned on by Soran, who looks like he'd be flat on the ground without anything to keep him up.

"I'm done," Icarus says flatly. "Like, good-fucking-night moon, or whatever. I'm done."

Okay, Tarquin can understand that. He felt that in a lot in the long hours it took him to find another exit out of the mines after the one behind him had collapsed from the force of the explosion. The urge to give in and be done was a strong one.

Soran looks up and sort of through him, as if he's not standing there at all, and then chokes up a mouthful of blood all over the ground.

That's nice.

"Fuck," Icarus says, without any feeling. He leans down, carefully, and clamps down on his own lip when he puts weight on his clearly injured foot, trying to pull Soran up, somehow, when he's hardly standing himself.

"Okay, maybe we shouldn't move him," he cautions. "If he's injured internally, or something—"

"Fucking _if,_ " Icarus spits. "He went out the fucking windshield, I'm pretty sure it's a definite yes."

It looks like the windshield won, if Tarquin's being honest with himself. He doesn't say that aloud.

They have to move him, though. What else are they going to do? There's a town or something not far from here, the prospect of help, so what's he to do? Take the person in the best shape and get help on the bike when he can hardly feel his own feet?

Ria or Emmi would go with him. Not Icarus, he doesn't think, who looks about as close to crying as Ria did and who has chosen to ignore all advice Tarquin's offered since he showed up. He hovers by their side when Icarus resumes his quest to get them both standing up and ends up grabbing onto both of them when they nearly topple over.

He'd be convinced Soran was a corpse on it's feet if he wasn't blinking slowly every few seconds. Beyond that it's more than slightly concerning.

He kicks away a bigger path for the three of them even though Icarus is essentially dragging Soran along, half-hopping himself. Icarus looks like he's about to cut his hand off every time he so much as extends it when one of them wobbles but he keeps doing it only for the fact that if one of them goes down again he's not so certain they'll get back up.

Up ahead there's a light cutting down the path, and Icarus grabs his arm right where the flesh is charred and peeling away from the mine fire a second before he hears an odd noise from above, one that he can't associate with anything he knows.

"That light isn't—"

"From one of us?" he finishes. For the first time Soran makes a noise, but he can't tell what it's supposed to mean. If it even means anything.

"If that's another Sentinel I will absolutely let them kill us all," Icarus informs them, and Tarquin's about ready to agree when he sees the silhouette at the top of the hill. It's not a familiar face, nothing he could hope for. Nothing he envisioned when he was lost in the never-ending maze below the mountains, nothing but fire and corpses at his back.

It's reminiscent of a Peacekeeper uniform, older and more tattered, more muted in color. Otherwise just a tall, shapeless form rendered almost black from the lights of the new car behind them, covered in dust from the desert as if it belongs here, or has been here all along.

Maybe it has.

He gets one last good look at the hopeful lights in the distance, a place this person might have came from.

Something hits him in the neck, a single pinprick that sets the nerves there alight. Besides him Icarus makes a vaguely alarmed noise and nothing else. Up the ditch there's no sign of Ria, no sign of Emmi.

He hits the ground with no recollection of falling in the first place. He reaches up, fingers closing around something sticking out of his neck, and wrenches it out. A little glass vial, something that would feel so easily breakable in the tight grasp of his fist if he could even move.

And a needle, at the end of it. For a second he's transported right back to the hovercraft, the feeling of that little jab into his ankle and then an inky blackness spreading over his eyes.

It's that same feeling now.

He can't move. He only feels the last two arrows strung over his back slip out of the sheath and disappear. He's never getting those back.

He had thought for one hopeful second that he might not need them.

He's not so sure anymore.

It's a miracle he goes under at all, with how fast his heart is racing away.

But he does.

* * *

There's only one thing I like more than the number four, and that's the number five. And nine but like, technicalities.

Yeah yeah yeah I'll get on with the apologies now? You know, for lying about who was dead once again and also saying only one person was going to win this whole time, whatever that meant. To be fair the several years ago original idea did only have one (read: two) living but I'm dumb as hell and also wildly insatiable so here we are.

Yeah. Sorry though. I'll just take my 17 survivors over 4 fics and vacate until next Saturday.

Until next time.


	37. Dawn's Light

XXXIV: ?

* * *

 **Mercia Mervaine, 14  
DEZ: Independence, California**

* * *

The sun rises, as does the news.

It's odd, because things happen in Independence as frequently as they do in this household when their parents are away which is to say, never. She's up at the crack of dawn, no surprise there, but Atlas is still asleep and she suspects he'll be there until eleven at the minimum.

By the time the news comes on she's already made herself a plate of toast and poured herself a second glass of juice.

There's nothing else on television at this hour or she wouldn't even be watching it.

Besides, it fills the time in which she wouldn't be doing anything else anyway. None of her friends will be awake at this hour either, especially not on a Sunday. School's out for the summer, after all. No one's getting up any earlier than they have to for the next few weeks.

Sometimes, though they're few and far-between now, she wishes for the Capitol. She doesn't properly remember it, growing up there. When they visited their Aunt Bell two years ago she had looked out the window of the car and tried to place a memory with every passing building and street, but couldn't find one that mattered.

Atlas sort of acts like he misses it, sometimes, but there isn't much he admits aloud.

At least there things _happened._ The news had things worth listening to, stories and breaking news that captured real attention instead of the awful, sickening monotony that she watched every morning on the stupid news.

She didn't even know the name of the main broadcaster that stared back at her every morning, which had to say something about how memorable he was.

This time was different, though. This time there was something. To anyone else it could have been just another day, another wreck just outside of town.

But like she said, things like that didn't just happen here.

From a distance, as the camera panned closer, she couldn't even tell what it was. A wide, sloping ditch barely illuminated by the sun that had yet to peek over the horizon. The two vehicles that quickly became distinguishable were so twisted together it was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. There seemed to be a lot of commotion, too, more commotion than what anything in this place usually required. It didn't look like an emergency, though. The only vehicles that were present otherwise were the ones that the border patrol agency used. The only reason the footage itself seemed so blurry was because it had to have been coming from one of those cars, one of those mounted cameras that no one but the agency and her parents here bothered owning.

The broadcaster wasn't even talking. Why wasn't he talking? Was she supposed to be putting this together herself? There was enough commotion going on already - mixed shouting and the slamming of doors.

"Could you be any louder in the morning?" Atlas asks blearily, and she peers over her shoulder in time to see him sit down with a thump halfway down the stairs. This must be a new record for him.

"Not me," she insists, and shoves another bite of toast into her mouth. It was impossible to tell who it was, anyway. Atlas about shoved his head through the gaps in the bannister to watch whatever the hell she was watching, really, because she still had no idea.

"What's going on?"

She shrugs. "Car accident, it looks like? Fuck if I know."

It looked too brutal to be _just a car accident_ , was what she couldn't help but shake. Whoever was in that was either dead or grievously injured and no one else milling around really seemed to be moving with the urgency that that came with.

If they didn't have urgency when it came to this, did they ever have it?

"D'you see that?" Atlas asked as she began to tear into her crusts, ignoring the crumbs that scattered in-between the cushions, never to be seen again.

"See what?"

She hadn't expected him to move with such urgency, either, not at this hour. When he snatches the remote from her other hand she jumps, nearly knocking her remaining plate of toast wrong-side up on the couch.

He rewinds the broadcast back a few seconds, fiddling with it until it pauses on a frame that's so blurry she can hardly make anything out, except for a handful of silhouettes.

"Look."

"At what?" she asks flatly.

"Does anyone else in this fucking town have hair the same color as yours?"

She blinks a few times. It _does_ sort of look like there's a bit of green attached to someone's head like hair, almost the same color as hers. So bright that she's wondering how she missed it the first time. Among everything else it's startlingly out of place.

"I don't think so?"

Atlas bounces the remote between his hands for a few seconds and then quickly saves the whole broadcast. Once it's done it goes back to the same frozen frame, as if it wants them to make sense of it. "When are mom and dad getting back?"

"Few hours. Why?"

His eyes are impossible to read, the same equivalent to a black fucking hole like dad's are, sometimes. She hates it and there aren't enough words to express just how much. She reaches up after a few seconds and pokes him in the cheek.

"What?"

"Nothing. I don't know. I'm just going to show them that when they get back. Or you should, if I'm still asleep."

"Why?" she repeats, but he's already trudging back towards the stairs. She yanks one of the couch pillows out from behind her and throws it at him; he's already half-way up the stairs by the time it flies, and misses him by a mile.

"You suck!" she shouts after him, and he waves vaguely behind himself in acknowledgement and then disappears. Fucking typical.

She shoves the last of her toast in her mouth and turns back towards the television. It could mean something, maybe. It could mean nothing at all, as most things usually do. But this is her life, and her stereotypical bad-things-just-happen bloodline. It probably does mean something, if she's being honest.

She just doesn't know what quite yet.

* * *

 **Soran Faerber, 18**  
 **Applicant #8**

* * *

Everything is a vague sort of off-white.

For a very long while he thinks that must mean he's dead only because he has no other explanation for it.

It turns out, though he realizes slower than an ideal pace, that he is not in fact dead.

It's tragic, really.

He only knows this for one reason, really. He wouldn't be in this much pain if he was dead, in hell or not. Fire's a different feeling than the one he's experiencing right now. He's not even sure _how_ he knows that, just that he does.

Everything _is_ so white when he finally gets his glued-shut eyes open that it's a miracle he can tell the difference at all between seeing and not. It's a little bit gray. Maybe off-white. It's not like he would know the fucking difference, would he?

There's only one thing in the small little room that isn't anywhere near sterile looking, and it just so happens to be the man sitting across from him. There's a table between them; that's gray. He's got a white uniform on but his features are dark, his olive skin slightly reddened from the sun.

And Soran has absolutely no fucking clue who he is, either, so that's interesting. There's a small tag pinned to the front of his uniform that reads 'ALDRICH' but nothing else.

Again, interesting.

He can't move, he quickly discovers. Whether that's because he's got one wrist firmly attached to the chair-back by some sort of restraint or because of how badly his legs hurt he's not really sure, and he's not exactly willing to figure it out. He's breathing. He didn't really expect to be, after the crash.

There's nothing in his brain to piece together. The pain, the light. Not much else after it.

Nothing else, in fact.

"I'd like to ask you a few questions," the man asks, lacing his fingers together over the desk. He's got a little notebook alongside him, a pen tucked into the first few pages.

Soran looks around. The room's the side of a fucking cubicle, if that. There's nothing else except the door behind him a foot to the left, three even bars across the window in the center.

"Am I being interrogated?" he asks hoarsely, and it feels like he's swallowed glass. Makes sense, because he can feel it practically every inch of his exposed skin. There's a shard of it embedded between his thumb and index finger; he'd pull it out if he had another hand to work with.

"That depends," he answers. "Your companions weren't so forthcoming."

He didn't expect them to be dead, not really, but hearing that they're alive makes his chest ache a little less. It doesn't do much good when it already hurts so much.

It was painful before - now every breath he takes is like getting stabbed all over again.

"What's your name?"

"Soran Faerber."

"Age?"

"Eighteen."

"Date of birth?"

"June 17th, 2263."

The man - Aldrich, whoever the fuck he really is, looks up at him. The pen pauses it's scribbling motions across the notepad, as if anything he's said thus far has been of any real importance.

"You do realize, Mr. Faerber, that that would make you nineteen."

He blinks a few times. "Would it?"

"The seventeenth was a week ago. Two days after you..."

"After I what?"

"After you _all_ , if the information you've provided us is accurate thus far, disappeared. All twenty-four of the New Haven applicants were pronounced dead in the early hours of the sixteenth. The hovercraft crashed just outside of District One."

He's trying to process that, he really is, but his skull is throbbing with an intensity that he didn't think was impossible, and he's becoming increasingly aware of just how blurry his vision really is.

"You don't believe us?" he settles on.

"Would you believe a group of five children that came out of a near-uninhabitable valley with a trail of bodies behind them? Especially when they claim they're five of the children that died over a week ago?"

He shrugs, and pain flares up his neck and into the base of his skull. "Maybe."

"We've been in contact with the Federation. We were waiting for any information you could give us before we confirmed anything."

He gives the man a thumbs-up and fresh blood wells up from the side of his thumb. Maybe if he wiggles it enough the glass will pop out on its own.

"Mr. Faerber, we need to know if you participated in or instigated any of the killings that went on inside the valley."

He laughs, despise how bad it hurts. It's worth it. "Look at me. What do _you_ think?"

"So you think this is funny?"

"Honestly, yeah."

That looks like it goes ignored, so Soran slides back into the chair as much as he can without falling out of it, which seems more likely by the second. There's no comfortable position - everything burns and aches like the pain is never going to go away. The scribbling in the notebook is incessant, like the man's writing a damn novel. When he looks up again his eyes are unreadable, or maybe his vision is just that bad.

"Your application had no emergency contacts listed."

"And?"

"When we talk with the Federation is there anyone you'd like them to contact? Any family?"

He dislodges a shard of glass embedded in the inside of his cheek when he laughs again, but this time he can't help it. Everything just seems so silly after what's gone on the past week. This conversation like anything's normal, like any question has a good answer.

And he's nineteen, apparently. That would have been what, the second day?

It's worth laughing at.

"I wouldn't worry about it," he manages. "You've probably already spoken to her."

"Sorry?"

Soran looks around, trying to loosen some of the tightness in his neck. There's no telling where everyone else is, what's happened in the hours that he's apparently been out. They have no idea where they are, what's happening, if something is going to happen next.

And he's still bleeding from multiple places, he's pretty sure.

"If you'd like to leave you'll have to clarify first."

"You said you've spoken to the Federation."

"We have."

"Pandora Quinn, then? You've got it covered."

It hurts to fucking talk already. He clamps his mouth shut after that and tries to focus on breathing, lessening the pain that comes with it every single time.

Aldrich stares at him. "Are you insinuating...?"

You'd have to be a fool to not get it, really, which is quite possibly an insult to Aldrich's seemingly rather average intelligence. He already decided he was done with talking, at least now. It's not worth the pain.

Aldrich taps something on the desk, on the other side that he can't see. A little speaker flares to life and crackles like it's embedded in his ears.

"You can come and get him."

He's unprepared for how quickly the door opens; he doesn't even get a good look at the face of whoever releases his wrist from the chair. He doesn't bother looking, either, because in the next two seconds he's jerked to his feet like a broken puppet.

He thought he was in pain before and now it's overwhelming.

His legs give way before he can even begin to think about trying to walk. There's one hand wrapped around his arm, another tucked under his shoulder, and it's the only thing keeping him from collapsing to the floor in a heap. It feels like his whole body is on fucking _fire_ _;_ when he looks down and comes to find that his whole body isn't smoking it comes as more of a surprise than anything else.

He can do nothing more than keep his head up as they drag him from the room and down the hall, though there's nothing worth seeing anyway. It's just all white, white and gray, nothing memorable or worthwhile. With every pull he swears something tears apart inside him, causing more fresh blood to well from his side and chest.

There's a window, too, just one set in the middle of the wall. There's bright afternoon sun seeping through the bars.

It's only been a few hours, but it feels like forever. Unless it's been a day, in which case he's slightly fucked.

Thankfully he's not dragged away for a terribly long time. Just down a few nondescript hallways and stairs with nothing to point him to an exit, a safe point.

This is what they were headed towards all along. So much for any sort of fucking _safety._

There's another person lurking around the next corner, completed with a Peacekeeper-like helmet. They produce a card from their belt and hold it to the door, which chimes like some sort of imitation corner shop before it clicks open. Whoever it is lets go before the door is even fully open and plants a hand between his shoulder blades, shoving him clear inside the gap.

The door slams shut. Someone catches him, halfway to the ground.

"Oh, fuck my life," Icarus snaps, which about sums it up in the immediate moment considering he can hardly fucking breathe. "Can someone—"

"I got him," Tarquin interrupts. "Just let go, you can't even put weight on your foot."

"Why are you here, again?" he wheezes, as Icarus absolutely does not let go even though Tarquin's holding onto one of his arms too.

"Not because I'm enjoying it."

"No shit," he manages.

"God, put him down," Emmi snaps. "None of you should be fucking standing."

She looks like shit too, he wants to say, but he can't even get the words out. He's left looking down at the floor while they maneuver him around, at Tarquin's ruined pair of bare feet and Icarus' right foot, only the toes touching the ground. Hell, even Ria only has one fucking shoe on, and he's not even sure how long it's been that way. They put him to the floor, and their attempted gentleness is lost at how bad it fucking hurts anyway. He might as well be fucking paralyzed with the pain.

He slumps back against the wall the second they let go and watches Icarus do the same, using the same wall to slide awkwardly onto the floor next to him.

This room is about the same fucking size as the one before, and he can't even be bothered to be annoyed by it.

"You look even fucking worse in the light," Icarus says, somehow managing to make that sound concerned, albeit not very touching. "You need to breathe."

"Trying."

He really is, too, but it hurts so badly he's considering if it's even worth it. Being dead would be a hell of a lot easier, especially with everyone staring at him the way they are.

They all look fucking terrible, but they're looking at him like he's worse.

He wouldn't be all that surprised.

"Where the fuck are we?" he says, but it comes out as more of a gasp when pain lances all the way down his side again. It might as well have a hold on his heart.

"No idea," Emmi says. "You got one?"

He shakes his head; Icarus grabs him and forces him still before he can even get back into his previous position, holding a hand to his shredded jaw.

"You think were in that town we saw, the lights?" Ria asks quietly.

"Maybe not," Tarquin says. "They're border patrol. We might still be on the outskirts."

The outskirts... close to civilization, hopefully. But this still isn't safety.

"They don't happen to have a fucking doctor here?" he asks, holding a hand to his chest. It doesn't help that his hand still has hardly any feeling in it at all.

"They didn't tell you?" Emmi asks. "Until they sort this out they said no medical attention. Probably a fucking bargaining chip. They've seen us, they know how bad we are. They want us to tell them more."

"I'll fucking tell them, then," Icarus insists. "We can't fucking go on like this, he can't—"

"I'm right here," he says. "M'fine."

"You are not fucking fine—"

He tunes Icarus out, because he's definitely _not_ and for the first time in his life is almost willing to bend to whoever wants him to bend to get a little bit of fucking help. There's something wrong with him, no doubt about it. Everyone else is bad but not _this_ bad.

And who knows how much worse it could get.

He's the wrong person to ask to have hope - he's never had any in his fucking life, never had any reason to. That's the kind of shit you throw away early when you grow up how he did.

But he has to have some now, or else he's probably going to die.

Because he won't say it aloud, but it sort of feels like he already is.

* * *

The next handful of chapters are shorter (shorter than my usual, anyway) so I hope that doesn't bug anybody _too_ much. We'll get back to our regularly scheduled programming soon, whatever that even means. What's the regular now, anyway?

Until next time.


	38. No Rest For The Wicked

XXXV: Witsonee Border Patrol Station.

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17**  
 **Applicant #13**

* * *

She's sort of decided that they're in purgatory.

It's the only semi-reasonable explanation. Maybe they all died in that car crash and someone decided they did too many fucked up things to pass on right. Maybe she died when she plunged off the cliff.

It's not like she would know, really.

What she does know is that they're stuck. She doesn't enjoy being stuck.

There's no time in here, no signs of the outside world or what's going on beyond these four walls. Occasionally they'll hear someone pass by the door, a muffled, inaudible conversation, but nothing more.

"How long do you think it's been?" Ria whispers, arms drawn up around her knees. It's not meant in any sort of offense, but she looks truly pathetic. Curled up in on herself, trying to become as small as possible. She's streaked through with blood and grime, trying to scratch it out from under her nails.

It won't work. Emmi's tried.

"Since when?"

"Since we saw someone."

That was when they dropped Soran in here, and Emmi has no fucking clue. "A day, maybe? A little less than that?"

"Do you think they're going to starve us?"

She snorts. "That would be fucking cruel after everything, wouldn't it? Death via starvation."

Ria doesn't smile. Maybe the cruel thing in all of this is living.

What matters to her right now is that nothing's being made any worse, at least not that she can tell. Tarquin nodded off not long ago. Soran's been out for a few hours, and while she'd like to think Icarus was doing the same she suspects he's feigning sleep only to stay next to him to watch his uneven, scratchy breathing.

That's still weird as fuck, but she won't bother saying it. Everyone knows it.

She wishes Ria would go to sleep, or something, because it looks like the longer she stays awake the more blank her eyes come. Like she's wished herself away.

Sleep would be easier than that. Kinder.

It's rich that she's wishing sleep for everyone else when she herself won't succumb to it. She's too worried to close her eyes; even when she fucking _blinks_ she feels like something could happen in the split second of space that her eyes are closed, when no one else is paying attention. Someone needs to. To be honest she's getting sick and tired of it being her after what, two whole days?

She was the one that lit the rope, the last one to get out into the street. She's the one awake now, the one watching because no one else is.

"Are you alright?" Ria asks eventually. Maybe because of how long she's been staring aimlessly at the door, waiting for nothing. It's probably concerning to someone on the outside trying to look in.

"Do you actually care?"

"Yeah," she says quietly. "Yeah, of course I do."

Emmi sighs and leans back against the wall, finally easing away from some of the pressure that always seems to be present all the way from her waist to her neck. At this point her body is just crying out for a break and this is probably the only opportunity she's going to get even if it comes in the form of a cold, concrete wall and an even colder floor.

"I don't think I'd be alive without you," Ria continues. "I wouldn't have been able to plan anything on my own, and do you think they would have? If you hadn't been so determined to survive I don't think any of us would have. So I care. I'm sorry if it doesn't seem that way."

It sounds honest, more honest than anything Emmi's heard lately. Maybe her brain is just too sluggish and put-out to read too deeply into things, but it sounds like Ria does care.

She's not sure she expected that.

"Tarquin probably would have survived."

That earns a smile, eventually. Ria leans back against the wall next to her. "I don't think that counts."

"That totally fucking counts. He lives, it counts."

"I think we still lose in that universe."

"Good thing this universe isn't that one, then. Us five, Sentinels zero."

"They're probably laughing at us, you know," Ria tells her. "Wherever they are now. Probably laughing at our misfortune."

"Funny, considering they're the dead ones and we're not. They can laugh all they want, nothing will change that."

Or at least she hopes nothing will change that. She's desperately trying to ignore the thought lingering in the back of her head that says they're probably screwed anyway. Who knows how long they're going to be kept in here until someone shows up to collect them. Hell, who knows if the people here have even really contacted the Federation. Wouldn't something have been done by now if they had?

Maybe no one gives enough of a fuck about them. If the situation was reversed and someone told her some previously dead kids weren't actually dead she's not sure she'd even believe it.

It's a good thing that's not up to her. She's here, they all are. There's nothing not to believe when you're looking at it.

"Go to sleep," she tells Ria. "At least for a little while. It'll do you some good."

"And what about you?"

"I'll try eventually. Just not right this second."

Ria nods, but apparently that's enough to satisfy her. She curls back up ahead, cheek pillowed on the uneven surface of her knees, but she looks a smidgen less tense than before. Emmi knows from a terrible amount of experience just what good a smidgen can do in the long run.

She probably should get some sleep, close her eyes and rest while she still can. Who knows what's going to happen next.

Not her, certainly. And she's not sure she wants to know anyway.

* * *

 **Tarquin Vierra, 16**  
 **Applicant #4**

* * *

When he finally closes his eyes it's the first time he's done so in days.

It's not like he really had the opportunity to; he couldn't rest, couldn't sit and risk something, _anything_ happening. It didn't matter how bad his ears were ringing, how bad his feet stung with every step he took, more grime embedded into the bottom of his burnt feet.

The fire had been the worst part. Half the mine had collapsed already and then the fire had caught the supports, too, sending the last of it crashing to the ground. It had been _everywhere_ and he hadn't even thought twice about nearly sticking his hand into the widest swath of it, until the metal around his wrist started to bubble and pull apart.

His skin had done the same thing, but it hadn't seemed like a big deal then.

He had had to peel what was left of his scorched shoes off of his feet, taking some skin with them and unstick his jacket from the worst of the melted skin before it got too impossible to do.

It's not like he has a mirror to look into, but he reckons he probably looks like someone stuck him over a fire and left him there for too long.

Sleeping is hard when it still feels like the remnants of the fire are lingering around him, but he does. It's nowhere near the best sleep he's ever had in his life, but it feels close anyway. That's what sleep deprivation will do to you.

Still, though, his status as _relatively barbecued_ looks like nothing in comparison to the state of everyone else.

He's reminded of that every time he opens his eyes, no matter how many times over. Emmi is the only one relatively awake whenever he does so over the course of a few hours but every time he looks at her she's fixated on the same spot of the wall above his head, like she's mentally dug a hole out and is already gone. He hopes that she would wake them up if that was the case.

At her side Ria somehow looks the most intact, tragically. Sort of ironic considering she wasn't far from death a few days ago, same as the rest of them.

Or maybe Soran now. He's not too sure on that front and isn't willing to confront it just yet.

Emmi's still far away when he hears the footsteps outside the door, enough to properly rouse him. He rolls over to face it and watches Emmi's eyes blink a few times as the door creaks open and then hits the opposite wall.

She jumps at the sound - he does, too, but no one else even flinches.

That has to say a lot.

The man, unrecognizable this time at least to him, looks down and gestures at him. "You. Let's go."

"What?" Emmi asks before he can, still too busy trying to sit up without tearing himself apart in one fell swoop. "Why?"

"We're in need of another conversation." The man waggles his fingers at him, and Tarquin gets the message quickly. Either he moves or someone's going to move him, and he's not in the state for that right now.

"Hey," Emmi continues. "You can't—"

"I'm good," he assures her. "I'll be back soon."

Hopefully, he wants to add, but they really have no good reason not to bring him back here unless they're planning on killing him, and he can't see that. Whether or not they're in contact with the Federation doesn't matter; someone eventually will find out, and if they pull apart the details and find out he died after the fact, somewhere in this facility...

It wouldn't be so pretty, is what he's thinking.

He's frog-marched back down the same way he came from yesterday, arms pinned safely behind his back. What would he really do against this guy anyway in the state he's in? At least the man that's herding him this time is being slightly gentler about it, though, not digging their fingers into his burnt skin like the truly evil woman that had a hold of him yesterday.

His optimistic side is saying that they're going to return him safe and sound, if not slightly overdone. The other half is saying that woman is probably around here somewhere waiting to drag him around again like she enjoys it.

Maybe she did, and still would. Maybe that's his punishment for not having to deal with the Sentinels like the others.

The man opens a door, closer this time, and leads him into the chair just inside. It's not all that different from the room he was in yesterday, but it doesn't look so harsh and clinical anymore. There's less white - hell, the desk is some sort of wood tone, and that's a vast improvement. There is a woman behind the desk but it's not the horrible one; they're wearing the same off-white uniform, but her face isn't as harsh or angular, much less threatening. She's sorting through some files when he's sat down and doesn't look up, not when he sits down and not when the man who brought him here takes up his position by the door.

Tarquin waits for him to leave, but he doesn't.

That's different, and he isn't sure he wants to know why.

"Mr. Vierra, correct?" she asks, and he nods. He has the urge to fidget but can't move his hands away from the chair back. At least that's consistent.

"Mr. Vierra you told us yesterday that you had nothing to do with disappearances or presumed deaths of the other nineteen applicants from the New Haven Program. Is that still true?"

"I didn't lie," he says. "Do you think I'm lying?"

"It's an oddity," she points out. "If your accounts are true the number went from twenty-four down to five, and you're preaching that you got here... almost by coincidence. One of your friends I was told called it as it seems - another Games. Panem never saw a victor with no kills."

"I didn't," he starts, but nearly chokes on the rest of the sentence, like another heavy layer of soot has settled back over his lungs, down his throat.

He can still smell it, can still see it through the darkness. The bodies. The screaming.

"You didn't what?" she prompts.

"I didn't," he says again. "I killed someone. More than one."

"Who then, Mr. Vierra? Care to share?"

No, he doesn't. He's still wearing that first guy's fucking clothes like he owns them, threw his melted shoes off into some ravine or other, just like he did with his body. He wants to tear them all apart, burn them too and erase everything that says they even existed.

He sort of wants to do that to himself, too, so maybe it's not a reliable way to go. Or maybe he's the unreliable one.

"Do you know?" he croaks. "About... about the other people out there?"

She levels him with a stare. He starts to take back what he said about her not being the slightest bit scary. "People."

"You know, don't you?" he asks. "That's why you're guarding the border. To keep them in, and to keep the rest of the population out. Because you knew they were out there, you've known this whole time."

"I'm not sure—"

"They had a fucking facility in the mines, a fully stocked lab and medical room, don't tell me you're not sure. Whether the Capitol did it or not, someone knew. Someone set them up to keep them in there without complaint."

Even the man by the door seems uneasy, shifting on his feet. Tarquin two weeks ago wouldn't have even noticed it, but he does now. He had to notice everything when he was down there, every minuscule movement and hardly audible sound. Everything, or he died.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"It appears you already are, Mr. Vierra. Please do."

"You don't have to say anything else, just... just tell me this. Do you know how many of them were out there?"

He can see the cogs turning in her brain, rotating over and over like she's trying to figure out how to answer them. She closes the file she had been pondering, so it can't have been that important. Maybe it had something to do with the people out there; clearly that didn't matter much, if they never bothered telling the general population.

It should have mattered.

"Thirteen," she settles on. "Thirteen as of our last census - that was two months ago. Two other groups used to exist, but they either died off or were killed by the one you must think you're talking about, their ancestors. PF03 - that's how the Capitol refers to them. We just call them Fallout Three."

And somehow, miraculously, everything goes back to the beginning. Just like a new Games, the effects of the Dark Days continue to haunt them. The people living there when the Capitol dumped all their nuclear waste... every single one of them. They had thirteen ancestors left of all of them, of the hundreds of people that must have been out there. And now none.

"Thirteen," he says quietly. "They're all dead."

"I'm sorry?"

"They're all dead," he repeats. He can still see it. The one he shoved over the edge of the ravine. The ones buried in the collapse of the mines, the ones burnt alive.

The ones he shot and killed when he crawled his way out of the ruin, the ones who had refused to die the first time.

"And how do you know that, Mr. Vierra?"

He looks up at her. "Because I killed them all."

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17  
Applicant #10**

* * *

"Think they've killed him yet?" he asks.

Emmi hums, which isn't technically a fucking answer, although he doesn't tell her that. Soran shrugs - he only feels it because his shoulders poke up into the softest part of Icarus' stomach. For a while he was slightly touched that Soran had conceded to being manhandled and held like an overgrown child, but the longer he lays virtually unmoving in Icarus' lap the more worried he grows that it's not touching at all.

Everything from his right ankle to his toes is still throbbing. He tries to stretch out and relieve some of the numbness, but Soran only flinches.

"I barely moved," he insists.

"Tell that to someone wholly intact."

"You should probably lay on the floor, then," Emmi says. "You shouldn't make anything worse. Also watching the two of you basically cuddle is weirding me the hell out."

Ria cracks a small smile, Ria who is apparently not fucking asleep at all, although faking it very well. It feels at this point as if everything's working against him.

"Do you want on the floor?" he asks. The lump in his lap hardly looks like a person at all, let alone Soran.

"No. It's cold."

Emmi sighs, and then rubs a hand across her face. _It's not cold in here,_ she mouths at him. They're surrounded by concrete in every direction, but it's really not. The coldest thing in here right now is Soran, who's temperature is equivalent to the inside of a freezer. Icarus can feel how clammy his skin is without even touching him - when he lays a hand on his back it's _bad,_ like he's two seconds away from shivering. That or dying from hypothermia on the edge of a desert.

He has no idea what's wrong with him. No one does.

At least he _knows_ his foot is likely broken, or something around there. Beyond that he's got nothing.

And even though it should matter it doesn't, really, because it's not like he can fucking do anything about it.

"How long's he been gone?" Soran asks into his leg, muffled as ever, but he's gotten really good at understanding his seemingly far-away questions, inaudible as they are.

"Twenty minutes? Half hour?" he questions. Emmi shrugs, although it looks like half-hearted agreement. "Not that long."

"But they don't want to talk to the rest of us?" Ria wonders. "It's... weird."

"Don't say that so fast," Emmi warns. "They'll get to the rest of us eventually. They just need to prioritize. C'mon, _we_ don't even know what he was doing out there the past few days. You basically implied he was dead."

"I thought he was."

"What the hell were _you_ doing out there?" he asks her. "You were alone longer than any of us."

"Nothing fun, that's for sure," Emmi answers quite obviously, as if any of them were having fun in the first place. "I don't think I need to ask what you two were doing."

He rolls his eyes. Judging by the slightly heavier weight in his lap Soran's probably gone back to sleep, which is for the best. Thinking of it like that is better than imagining him awake and unwilling to respond. Any other time and Icarus would be able to hear the ridiculously snarky retort before it came out of Soran's mouth - now imagining it just kind of hurts, oddly enough, because he knows he won't.

It's hard to stop thinking of everything as some greater doom and gloom constantly working against them when nothing will go right.

They won, it feels like. They won and for _what_? To be imprisoned here, dragged around and questioned like they didn't deserve to live in the first place?

Ria sits up as if on cue when the door scrapes back open and Tarquin is shoved back inside, some weird sixth sense that he's almost convinced she has just based on general weirdness. He winces at the drag of his bare feet against the concrete before he steadies himself against the wall.

The door clangs shut again, no one else retrieved. There's more dried blood on this floor than Icarus would like to admit.

"What was that about?" Emmi asks, but he turns away from them, hands over his face, and leans into the wall. Before he looked half-scary, like some sort of scorched, vengeful creature, and now he just looks small. Smaller than he should.

"I might just cry for a minute, or ten," Tarquin informs them. "Don't mind me."

Icarus has felt like that since he crawled out of the car's wreckage and realized he was still alive, for some stupid fucking reason. Nothing's come out though. He feels like all he can do is sit here and cry but he can't even do that properly. Maybe since Estella he's just run dry, or maybe he's just that dehydrated, which somehow seems simultaneously unrealistic and very, very possible.

"Are you okay?" Ria asks quietly. It looks like she wants to get up and do something, but she doesn't.

"Awesome," he says. "I killed thirteen people."

" _What_?" he asks, matched with Emmi's equally loud and confused _excuse me?_ Even Soran twitches, although he doesn't actually do anything. Apparently it's not concerning enough for him.

Ria is the only one who doesn't look totally surprised, not at his words or his slightly distraught face when he turns around to look at her.

"There were thirteen?" she asks.

He inhales shakily. " _Were_. Yeah."

"Okay, fess up," Emmi demands. "What are you talking about?"

"I feel like it's... a lot, for someone that has no idea."

"Alright, does it look like we're fucking going anywhere?" Emmi asks. "Do you have plans or something?"

Icarus wishes any of them did, not even just himself. A plan that involved a place other than this, no matter where it was. He really would rather be in hell.

Tarquin turns to look at all of them properly for the first time, eyes slightly misty, a look on his face that Icarus can't place. It's different than the way any of the others look - he knows even he doesn't look that way, mirror or not. It feels like looking at some great unknown, a mystery too complex for him. He was never good at those, never pretended to be.

But it looks like he no longer gets a choice. He has to face it.

Was any of this really what he thought, though, what he wanted? He didn't even come here of his own volition, couldn't fill out a simple enough application and get himself here without someone doing it for him, someone who he swears is laughing at him from wherever she ended up.

He didn't expect what he got every waking minute of every single day that's passed and he didn't expect to still be alive, now. At this point it almost feels predictable, but not quite like a good thing.

Him a year ago, whoever it was that existed before, he would have hoped for change. Hell, he would have gone out and changed it himself.

He's tired, now. He just wants to sleep.

All he can hope for now is that that time comes, one day.

* * *

And happy official 200k. I'll be saying that again before this story is over much to my dismay. Let me know what you think is going to happen next, if you have any idea at all, considering I barely did when I was writing it!

Until next time.


	39. Three Seconds

XXXVI: Witsonee Border Patrol Station.

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16  
Applicant #17**

* * *

"Is she asleep?" she asks, voice hardly above a whisper.

Tarquin leans off the wall beside her a ways, just enough to gather a look at Emmi's face. "I think so."

She nods and leans back herself, finally satisfied in some regard. She was actually starting to wonder if the bruises under Emmi's eyes weren't just from getting tossed and thrown about, and judging by how still and content she appears now sleep definitely factored into it.

At this point Tarquin's the only one who hasn't slept for more than a few hours, but she doesn't think she's going to get anywhere with that. Not today.

Not any day, really. Who does she think she is? She doesn't have the magical cure-all, can't fix this for them, can't have a rational, well-thought out conversation even like most people would. She's just _exhausted_ , both mentally and physically. Every part of her body still aches; her head hasn't stopped thumping since she woke up, or maybe it was even before that. She has no idea.

Now she's hungry too on top of everything else, and beyond thirsty to boot. They get out of the desert, mostly, and now they're at the mercy of dehydration all over again.

Who would've thought?

Once again Tarquin shifts beside her as he seems to do every other minute or so, but he never wavers from whatever spot he's picked for the moment. Sometimes the wall, sometimes the floor. His face no longer has the puffiness or slightly reddened look from crying - it's been a while, again. No way to tell just how long, and that's really not how she likes to be measuring time, but it's the only thing she's got to go on.

She must have spent too long lingering on the side of his face, because he turns to her and offer a weak smile.

"Thank-you," she says, because it feels too awkward to just be staring at him for no good reason.

"For what?"

"You know what for. You saved my life."

Him and Emmi both, really. She's going to be thanking people for the rest of her life, however long that even is.

"You don't have to thank me for that."

"Are you serious?" she asks. "I wouldn't... I wouldn't be here right now."

"And we still don't know that being here is going to do any good," he points out. "They're just letting us rot. Letting us die."

She may not feel like she's about to die, not yet anyway, but Soran certainly looks it. She's getting more and more scared by the minute to even look at him because she doesn't know what she'll have to confront when she does. What if they do leave them in here to rot, to die? What if he dies right here in front of them all and they can't do anything about it?

She wouldn't be able to do anything about it. She could never be useful like that.

"I don't wanna die," she whispers.

"I know."

"I wanna go home."

"Me too," he agrees. "I want... I hope they can understand."

"They won't," she says, and he nods in agreement.

"They never did," he continues. "That's why all of the Victor's were so close, why the Nine basically disappeared off the grid together. Because no one else understood. I never got it when I was little. I didn't think I ever would."

They hoped they never would, too, and that had seemed like such a beautifully real possibility. That another kid would never have to deal with the horrors of the old world and the games they played in it. They would start to remember those things, celebrate what came after them, learn not to repeat them...

What the hell was this, then?

"If we get out of this, and it was worth it," Tarquin starts. "You can thank me then."

That makes sense. It's something she can accept, too. For all she knows they all die in here and that's the end of it. If they do somehow manage to get out of here who knows what hell could be on the other side of it - it could be even worse than what they just went through, for all she knows. She's not sure she can even imagine something that bad, but it exists. She knows it does.

She's never been a particularly optimistic person. The opposite, in fact. But she really does hope she gets to thank him, because it'll mean something came out of this. Something better. Something brighter.

It's that thought alone that's keeping her from wishing that she was the one dying.

Tarquin slumps down the wall a bit; eventually his head brushes against her shoulder and stays there after he spends a few minutes shifting about. There's no room to move over even if she wanted to unless she wants to take up residence sitting on Emmi, who no doubt wouldn't appreciate it after fighting sleep for so long in the first place.

She doesn't really want to, anyway. It makes her feel a little less cold.

Her eyes are almost on the path to closing again when the door scrapes open. At first it's so quiet that she almost dismisses it, until the figure on the other side steps through.

For a second, she feels something almost like hope, until it fades away again. It's just more of the same. Another unfamiliar person in uniform.

"Mr. Vierra, we'd like to speak to you again, if you don't mind."

Before she can even blink Tarquin has pulled away from her side and is hauling himself to his feet, using the wall above her head to pull himself up.

"You don't have to go," she tells him. Only Icarus has blinked himself awake with the minimum amount of commotion, looking between them all in silence. Tarquin doesn't look anything other than resigned, as tired as she feels all the way down to her bones.

"Hey, wait a minute," Icarus interrupts, sounding more awake than she gave him credit for. "I want to talk to someone too."

Everyone stills. Even the person putting the cuffs back around Tarquin's wrists freezes once the job's done and stares down at them, at Icarus who is otherwise unmoving but has a very odd look in his eye.

"You wanna come in here and grab this one?" the man asks, leaning a ways out of the doorway to gesture into the hall. A moment later someone else appears, another uniform, and takes up nearly the whole door-frame with how broad their shoulders are.

Icarus looks at her. "Can you take him?"

She blinks herself properly awake and scrambles across the floor, though it's not very far to go in the first place. She helps Icarus ease Soran to the ground, though he doesn't move or show any signs of waking even with their hands prodding and pulling at him. Icarus is up on his feet before the transfer is even really finished, wobbling alarmingly on one leg while trying to test his weight on the other.

Soran is just barely leaning up against her legs, but she can still feel how cold he is.

"What are you doing?" she murmurs, and he clamps his mouth shut when the other man approaches, closing another set of cuffs around his wrists. Whatever he was about to say, she has no idea.

Hell, maybe he doesn't even have one himself. That's sort of how they're operating at this point.

Though they've made a point about being loud in the past the door closes behind the four of them almost as quietly as it opened, and everyone left in the room besides her remains still as can be. Emmi appears to be in the midst of one of the deepest sleeps of her life, and Soran...

She doesn't really have a choice but to confront it now.

His skin is white, like paper, almost translucent in parts. He almost looks _blue_ but his pulse is still there when she brings a hand to his neck, faint as it may be. He's not dead.

Not yet, anyway.

She really didn't want to do this, but she's not sure she's equipped to handle this alone.

Ria sighs, and stretches an arm as far as she can manage to wake Emmi.

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17  
Applicant #10**

* * *

He had a dream that he was dead.

Maybe, sort of. He doesn't really know what being dead feels like, but it just felt that way. It felt like nothing was wrong.

He had woken up, and for a second almost wished it was true.

So he's come to a decision. Either he's dying today, or he's getting the hell out of here. Whichever happens first.

Tarquin keeps looking back at him, the two of them being led down the hall like wild animals. Maybe it's because he doesn't know what the hell's going on, or what the hell's going to happen, anymore than Icarus does. Maybe it's because walking is painful, and every single step he takes on his presumably broken foot or ankle is earning one hell of a noise out of him.

Probably both.

One guard deposits Tarquin inside the first door they encounter, another interrogation room. He's led to the room across the hall and watches the empty-handed guard stride away, gun in his belt but hands swinging freely.

He's gone, by the looks of it. That means this one will probably stay.

Great.

The man holding onto him is also conveniently the one that stays inside the room with him, which feels lucky even when he fastens him to the chair back like old times and then sits down across from him. He's got a few options here, really, he just hasn't decided yet which one will be the most effective. He probably won't know until they're all finished.

"So, what would you like to talk about?"

"What's your name?"

The man leans back in his chair, slightly more casual than the rest. "Darrien Stadler."

"Alright, Darrien, well I'm sure you're aware of the fact that we need help."

"In what respect?"

Maybe he shouldn't have even bothered with this route; he's not sure he can handle this guy for as long as he needs to. "We need a doctor. You know that."

"That's not my decision to make, kid."

"Who's is it, then? I need—"

"What you need doesn't matter - nothing you say is going to change their minds unless it's what they want to hear."

"What do they want to hear, then?" he asks. "We've been in here for what, days? What do they need?"

"Every detail you can give them. They want everything they can get before they anyone from the Capitol gets involved."

"So let me guess," he says slowly. "The Federation has no idea we're here. No one does."

That gets ignored, so he's assuming he's right. No one fucking knows they're here. They could all die in here and no one would be any the wiser - the whole world already thinks them dead anyway. They'll dump all five of their bodies into some unmarked desert grave and be done with it, like they never even existed in the first place.

Darrien's toying with his radio, now, avoiding Icarus' eye entirely. "Someone just might."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

 _Someone just might_ , he hears again, and misses whatever Darrien says into the radio, no doubt something massively important. It feels that way.

"I want you back out here, Stadler. In case the two of them start poking around," a tinny voice sounds through the receiver and makes something ugly crawl down his spine

"On my way," he responds, and stands up. He's got no time left, now, not nearly as much as he wanted in the first place. There was a chance before that he could talk his way out of this, or perhaps into something marginally better, but not anymore. That time's up. That doesn't mean he still doesn't have a chance.

Darrien rounds the chair and has unhooked him from it, sealing his wrists back together, before he even thinks to do anything in the few seconds it takes. He gets back to his feet, desperately trying to steady himself when he can hardly maintain his balance. He has to do something before he opens the door; there's someone else out there, and no way he takes on two of them and wins.

A bolt of pain shoots through his ankle yet again. It's not entirely purposeful when his leg gives way, when his knee hits the ground with a painful thud. Darrien lets go with one hand, as if to steady him at the elbow and pull him back up. Icarus throws himself forward with the gained momentum before he can, practically tumbling towards the closest corner of the room as the last hand Darrien has on him falls away.

He's still half on the floor, can feel the massive presence looming over him, and switches directions. Back towards his legs. He collides with them, unable to do anything with his arms other than push, and Darrien topples like a fucking giant, first hitting the chair and then the desk as he tumbles over it, hitting both with a great thud and the floor with an even louder noise.

He crawls across the floor after him, just managing to crawl over top of his back before he could get to his hands and knees. Icarus loops his hands over top of his head and locks the chain holding his hands together around Darrien's throat until he can pull them no more.

"I really don't wanna kill you," he manages, but locks his hands together and keeps pulling, until Darrien's hands begin to struggle futilely for the chain that's closed around his throat. He's already red in the face, the color spreading out from his neck.

He's going to match Soran in a few days, is what he thinks quite hysterically.

If he doesn't kill him, that is. And it's not like he'll have the mark of fingerprints bruised into his skin.

He lets go the second Darrien goes limp underneath him, doesn't even think for a second that the man could be faking it just to throw him off. He doesn't move when he clambers off of him.

He can't even tell if he's breathing, and isn't about to check.

There's still the sound of whoever's outside the door, presumably the guard left out there. He's not going to have a choice about that.

He fumbles the keys free from Darrien's belt and pops the cuffs off. His wrists ache and burn but he has no choice but to ignore it, grabbing the key-card and the handgun stowed away beside each other just as the door beeps from the outside, the signal of someone about to enter.

Icarus gets one good look at the guard's eyes, at curiosity that quickly trickles into alarm when he raises the gun, closes his finger over the trigger.

It changes into something else, when the bullet fires. He just doesn't know what.

He's out in the hallway before the guard even hits the ground. He sees the blood for a second, spreading rapidly over his chest as he steps over him, but can't bring himself to focus on it. If he does, if he really thinks about it, then it might be all over again.

Everything he did... it just goes on.

The door across the hall chimes just the same when he holds the key-card to it, but the woman beyond it is entirely different. She's already halfway to her feet, responding to the commotion that he's caused, but there's no sense of alarm in her eyes. She looks almost terrifyingly calm, like she's fully prepared for whatever was out in this hall, whatever she was about to encounter.

It almost makes him feel worse when he pulls the trigger again.

It's worse this time, hits closer to the neck. There's a spray of blood as it tears out the back, all over the white wall behind. Tarquin jolts so fiercely he nearly knocks both himself and the chair over. He had been about to look over his shoulder, no doubt to look at the intrusion himself, but now his eyes are squeezed shut.

Probably for the best.

"What did you just do?" he chokes. "Oh my god, are you insane?"

"We gotta go."

"Everyone in the building probably just heard that, oh my god—"

"Which is why we gotta go," he insists, wiggling the key around until the cuffs pop free just like his did. "Take her gun, let's go."

He doesn't wait to see if Tarquin actually listens, only hopes that he does as he steps back out into the hall. There's no one else there yet, just a body and two doors, a smear of blood on the floor where he fell.

It's only a matter of time.

"Do you have a plan?" Tarquin asks, sounding more breathless than he has any right to. "Fuck, I don't know how to use this."

That's real great. "We need to get out of here."

" _How_?"

"There might be someone here who knows we're here, too. That, or we need to find a way out."

"And what _then?"_

He grabs Tarquin's arm, instead, because he doesn't have a single good answer for that, hasn't been able to come up with one for shit. The two of them stumbling about would probably look hilarious to anyone watching if they weren't both black and blue, scraping their bare and ruined feet along the floor, through the smear of blood the guard has left on the floor. It'll be less funny once someone finds out what they've done, what he's done. It won't matter the differences between the two of them, though. They're all getting blamed for this one.

Unless they get out, which is already seeming less and less likely by the second, but it's not like he can take back what he just did.

"Okay," he starts. It really does hurt to walk without any assistance, but he's ignoring it. "If we can't get out, one of us needs to find the entrance to this place. Like I said, someone might be here could help us. If not, one of us needs to find a phone."

"And call who?"

Well, he's not exactly invested in ringing up his parents right now, but at least they'd do _something_. That he knows. They have no love spared for each other but they wouldn't leave him here to die.

"Whoever you can think of," he answers. "Tell them we're alive, and that we need help."

"You can go get the others, I'll start looking," Tarquin insists, and an alarm blasts so loud through the hall that they both jump into each other. It only causes a world of pain for them both, he's sure. More pain flares up all the way to his knee, would have caused another collapse if Tarquin didn't keep holding on. There's a rotating light at the end of the hall, obnoxiously orange-yellow. The whole hallway is bathed in it.

"I lied, I'm not going anywhere," Tarquin says. "I think they know."

No avoiding that now; it doesn't matter, anyway, because they just have to turn around the next corner and that's where the room should be. He doesn't know if he should be accounting for another guard outside their door as well, but he has the gun up just in case.

He really doesn't want to shoot anyone else. He's so fucking tired of it already.

Tarquin, in the very least, seems to notice something that he doesn't. His hand tightens around Icarus' elbow a second before they turn the corner. There's a third set of footsteps, and then a fourth.

He hears it too late, and two seconds later the barrel of his gun is leveled with someone's forehead.

 _He_ backs up at the same time they do, slides backwards a few paces and knocks Tarquin back in the process. Whoever it is already has their hands up, unlike the guard behind them, who has a gun pointed back back before Icarus even blink.

"Oh my god," Tarquin manages, although it sounds different than when it was directed towards Icarus before. "This isn't real, right? You're not actually here."

The man in question smiles, just a little bit. Too much for someone who has a gun pointed at his head. "Nice hair, kid. I'm gonna pretend that's a tribute to me."

His hands are fucking shaking around the gun. He could press down on the trigger in one flat second and kill whoever this is.

That's probably what he should do, to the both of them.

"Sir, I need you to go back to the lobby—"

"Nah, I'm good here," he answers, and the guard's frustrated noise is almost amusing, muffled by his wide helmet. "My kid is pretty fucking smart."

"What?" he asks.

"There was something on the news a few days back... you lot, by the looks of it. I didn't think they'd mind me poking around in here if it wasn't true."

"Sir—"

"Shut your fucking mouth, would you?" the man asks, looking something beyond relatively calm for the first time. Icarus wishes he felt the same way. "You have a doctor in this building?"

Something in him almost cries out, at that, but his hands are shaking bad enough already. "Good fucking luck with that. We've tried."

He knows who he is. There's something itching in the back of his mind, some familiarity but it feels like it only existed a very long time ago. The man looks him all the way up and down and then Tarquin, the both of them looking like nothing more than zombies roaming the walls, like something that someone reanimated. Finally he looks at the door, as if sensing Icarus leaning towards it. He just needs to get through that door.

"How many of you are there?"

"Five."

"Five?" he repeats slowly. "Five of you, from New Haven?"

He nods. He knows, he _knows_ , he knows who they are and it almost sounds like he's going to do something about it. Icarus' eyes might as well be on fire.

"I'd hold out my hand, but I don't think you'd care," the man says. "Ferrox Mervaine. Nice to meet you. Or not, your preference."

"You're not fucking serious," he spits, but even as he says it he _knows._ The familiarity finally clicks. And Tarquin fucking knew, he knew from the second he saw him, of course he would, like that's just his thing. Maybe it is, because it's not like Icarus would know.

"I'm deadly serious, really," Ferrox says, and then looks over his shoulder. "Put the gun down."

"Like hell I am. He's killed two other guards already."

"Oh, that's it?" Ferrox asks. "I'd have killed a few more if I was in his situation."

His hands won't stop no matter what he wants. Chances are if he fired the gun right now he'd miss both of them no matter the proximity, but hopefully they don't know that. It's the guard that seems to be the issue, him and his steady hands be damned. Maybe it's just because of how bad he hurts, all over. Every single part of him is aching.

Maybe he's just terrified.

"I need you to listen to me," Ferrox says. "And it's gonna sound dumb as hell, I'm aware of that. Just hear me out. I need you to trust me, even if it's for a few minutes. You need to put the gun down. I am not going to let anything happen to you, not to any of you, but I'm not going to have any choice in the matter if this one shoots you."

He doesn't know if he can. It feels like his hands are glued to it, even if it feels like it's about to fall to the floor more with each passing second. If he lets go of it and something happens to him, to one of them, that's on him.

It'll be his fault.

"You can trust me," Ferrox insists. "It's weird, but I'm a lot more invested in saving lives, these days. I'm going to make sure you're safe. As long as you put the gun down."

"I don't think I can?" he says, rather stupidly, and his voice breaks in the middle for good measure. Even Tarquin looks as if he's about to cry, though, so he's not so sure it's that terrible of a thing.

It's just a long time coming.

Ferrox takes a slow, even step forward, and then stretches his arm all the way out until his fingers curl around the barrel of the gun.

"The door," he croaks, and it sounds even more pathetic than he'd like to admit. "They're in there."

Ferrox doesn't miss a beat and doesn't turn around, either. "Open it."

"I don't care who you are, you know," the guard says. "Intimidation isn't going to work here."

"Oh, if I was going that route, I would've stayed in the lobby and let my wife come looking. She's a lot scarier than I am. Open it."

"I'm not—"

There's a little pull against his hand, and the gun falls out of it. Ferrox turns around two seconds later with the gun in his hand, now, and points it straight ahead, towards the center of the guard's forehead that Icarus is so convinced he would have missed if he had taken the shot. He had already thought Ferrox was intimidating, if he was being honest, and the feeling skyrockets now. Maybe that's the territory with having previously almost-dead Head Gamemaker as your credentials.

"What are you doing?" the guard asks.

"Nothing right now, but you have three seconds before I shoot you in the head. _Open it."_

The guard wavers for the first time. Icarus would know if he could see the man's eyes, but he can't. The gun lowers an inch, and even over the sound of the alarm blaring through the hall he can practically hear the seconds ticking down.

The guard reaches down. Icarus watches the key-card come free from his belt and then witnesses him press it against the sensor outside the door, hardly willing to believe it when the light flashes green, when the door clicks open after it.

"Pleasure doing business with you," Ferrox announces, and the smile on his face slides right past intimidating and straight into terrifying. "Go."

He doesn't know if that's directed towards him or the guard but he doesn't care either way. He slides around them all and drags Tarquin with him, who doesn't protest at being pulled along and stumbles after him into the room. All three of them are still on the floor, that much he expected. What he didn't expect is the burst of panic that follows the door opening, at how quickly Emmi turns around and Ria's eyes, somehow even more wide and scared than usual, at Soran...

Emmi looks up at him. "He's not breathing."

* * *

Or maybe I do like the number four better after all, hey? Me and math, man, they don't make a great combination.

As of Tuesday I'm officially done writing this story, aka the Official Behemoth, in about an eight month time span, so thank you to everyone who has stuck with me thus far. It means more than you know!

As for the numbers game, you'll have to stick around until next week to see.

Until next time.


	40. Scorched Earth

XXXVII: Witsonee Border Patrol Station.

* * *

 **Tarquin Vierra, 16  
Applicant #4**

* * *

Tarquin, unlike everyone else present during that awful second, shuts down completely.

It must hurt to do so, but Icarus throws himself to the floor and leaves Tarquin standing there abandoned as he frantically inserts himself into the middle of whatever's happening on the floor. Ferrox, almost predictably, navigates around him to join the fray - even the guard lurking behind him leans around his shoulder to get a better look and then says something into the radio. Every word is lost on Tarquin, like he's speaking another language entirely.

 _He's not breathing,_ that's what Emmi said. Not breathing meant not breathing, to some people, but to him it meant super, clinically dead.

He had a lot of experience with what that looked like, after all.

"How long?" he asks, but nobody pays him any mind. The most important person in this room right now suddenly isn't Ferrox Mervaine. That honor belongs to someone dead for the time being, someone who wasn't dead the last time he saw him. "How long?"

It's Ria that looks up at him, finally. She's crying, he realizes. Silently, two matching trails down each side of her face.

"I don't know," she answers. It doesn't help. "I don't know how long it took me to notice, but he doesn't have a pulse—"

Someone's hands are moving through the thickness of a crowd made up of only five people. Four, really, because one's lying on the floor dead. Soran's not taking up much of anything. Compressions, he hopes. Ferrox's hands, he hopes even more, because he's not sure anyone else could do it.

How he wishes they could do the same to everyone else.

Ferrox looks through him rather than at him. It's definitely his hands that are moving. "Get your doctor, tell them to set-up whatever they have. And get a hand on some morphling."

Oh, not him. The guard. He obeys, for once, and disappears down the hall without so much of a word. The alarm is still blaring, the yellow-orange light at the next junction snapping back into his eyes every half-second. Maybe it's that which urges him forward, dropping carefully to his knees on the outskirts. He reaches forward, and from this distance can just barely close his fingers around Soran's left wrist, just under the makeshift bandage and scraps of cloth.

His skin is cold, as cold as Icarus said it was. There's still some warmth lingering underneath, just enough.

They can fix this.

Or they're trying to, in the very least. He can practically hear the rhythmic thumping, but it's not his heart. Not yet. It's the hands against his chest. There's a _crack_ and he flinches like he can feel it in his own bones.

"What the _fuck_ — he's bleeding again, why is he bleeding again?"

Tarquin can't see, doesn't really want to.

"If his insides are messed up, there's no telling what compressions will do to it," Ferrox manages. "The second he's back, we need to get him up and get the fuck out of here. He's gonna be in a world of pain - you're gonna have to ignore it."

Ferrox is acting like this is going to work, no questions asked. And asking them to ignore pain, at this point. They've been doing that for so long and now they were finally allowing themselves to feel it...

He really feels it, right about now.

"Wait," Emmi interrupts, voice hesitant. "I think—"

"I need guarantees right now, not thoughts."

Tarquin really is trying to feel something. Emmi's got a hold on his other wrist, he can tell now. Where she feels something he can't find it, can't focus because of the light flickering through the door, the constant blare of the alarm ringing in his ears, the eerie remembrance of the bullet tearing through that guard's neck, her endless questions before that.

"No, she's right," Icarus snaps, voice too far into hysterics. "I can feel it."

Tarquin can't feel it. Why can't he feel it?

"Lobby's down the hall, left then right, up the stairs. Go."

He doesn't realize he's being spoken to, can't see Ferrox's eyes from here. Ria gets to her feet and grabs him around the arm, dragging his rather lifeless form up to his equally useless feet before she pulls him from the room. He has no concept of what's actually happening around him, just that they start going the opposite way, passing right beneath the flashlight light at the end of the hall. His feet are burning worse than before.

A right, and then a left. He tracks the motions as if he's following them from above his body, floating because it hurts too much to walk. There are the stairs, up six and then back six more. To think they carried them down here, locked them up like they were wild animals.

He sort of feels like one right now.

Ria pushes at the door, which gives way with a clang. She's still holding onto his arm, fingers painfully tight, bitten and torn nails sinking in even through the layers.

It's too bright, all of a sudden. More yellow than even downstairs, natural light from the outside spilling in through the front windows, the glass entrance door. There's some chairs along the wall, a long closed-off desk on the opposite wall. There's even a little rug leading from the door all the way to it, like it was an attempt at being homey, like it wasn't awful.

There's even a few people, too, unfamiliar ones dressed more casually, and a woman leaning over the front desk, half-open mouth shutting at the sight of them.

"Oh, shit," she says, almost quietly. As if something's been confirmed.

He realizes who she is a second before the door bursts open behind them. There's a group effort going on to navigate through the door, carrying Soran between them. It's a good thing his hands apparently hardly work at all.

"Watch them!" Ferrox shouts. "Where's the—"

One of the people beyond the desk points down the hall before he can get the words out, and another steps out, gesturing to them as if to follow, eyes wide.

He stands there still as stone, and Ria doesn't let go of his arm, which leaves the two of them standing there as everybody else rushes away, down the hall. Gone.

But not really.

It leaves them all but alone, only two people left behind the desk to stare at them, owl-eyed, while Cambria fucking Mervaine approaches them almost cautiously, like they really are wild animals.

Maybe they are, or maybe he's the only one that thinks it, because he's the one that keeps making the comparisons.

Like he said, he feels it.

Ria's hand tightens a fraction around his arm, but she stops two feet away of them, previously extended hands falling silently to her sides.

"What the _fuck_?" she asks, and an hysterical laugh nearly bubbles up out of him before he shoves it right back down. Ria just shakes her head, an appropriate explanation. He wants to scream, kind of. That and cry all over again. He wants to sink to the floor and never get back up. Maybe just sit down in general.

"We're alive," he says weakly, obviously, and then does just that, right in the middle of the lobby.

* * *

Tarquin registers little blips, blurs where events should be.

He sits on the floor for a while, nearly dragging Ria down with him. Cambria eventually crouches down in front of him and hands him a water bottle from the shaking hands of one of the desk clerks.

He holds onto it for a while. Doesn't do anything with it.

A few guards file in and out, some frantically and some not. He nearly throws up at the sight of them.

Eventually, distantly, the alarm coming from down the stairs stops, and he gets up.

He's still not sure how; it feels like someone ought to have helped him but he doesn't remember any assistance, just the feeling of invisible strings putting him back on his feet. It still hurt but now he felt sort of numb, maybe from the unintentional, spur of the moment break.

He has no clear idea where they end up, either. Somewhere still in the building, above ground this time. The outside world doesn't look as different as he thought it would. The vaguely orange-brown mountains off in the distance, the golden cast to the dirt and the roads in every direction. There's not much out this way, at least not that he can see. Even still inside he finds himself gazing out every window he can find, unsure why.

Eventually he finds himself seated at the very end of a bench in a nondescript hallway. One of the lights is burnt out ten paces to his left. No one else is there.

Well, besides Cambria. She's lurking at the end of the hall, stature not very bodyguard-like but mannerisms certainly pointing in that direction.

But still, no one else. He doesn't even know where Ria went.

It probably, hopefully, doesn't matter too much. If something awful was happening elsewhere he'd know.

Again, probably. He'd probably know.

A door opens, nearly halfway between him and Cambria. They both turn to look at the not-so-new arrival, a woman he's seen milling about for the past while. She looks haggard at best, a cruel word coming from him and his truly tragic state, but there's no other word to describe it. Her eyes are shadowed, a few gray hairs escaping from her otherwise slicked-back ponytail.

The doctor, he knows, although she hasn't spoken to him yet. He only knows because of the coat and the name-tag he can't quite make out.

She holds out a hand. "Dr. Vasquez. I'd like to take a look at you, if you don't mind. I'd put you in an examination room but there's only one."

Right. It's not him that belongs in there. "Is he okay?"

He hasn't taken her offered hand, hasn't really agreed, but she sits down beside him on the bench and pulls on a pair of clean gloves. There's a little bit of blood underneath her fingernails, which can't be sanitary, but he can't be fucked to care.

"He's alive," she answers, which is less of an answer than he'd really like. She takes one of his arms, fingers at the edge of the worst burns. "There's probably some skin grafts in your future."

"Can you do that here?"

"They're transporting you to Fairfeld Memorial shortly. Approximately a half-hour from here."

"Just me?"

"No. All of you. There's only so much I can do here, and unfortunately heavy-duty stitching and complex surgery is not one of them. It's all I can do to keep you all in one piece for transport."

He can't imagine a doctor willingly withheld her care from them, so who did it? Did they even care what happened to them? It doesn't seem like they had a heavy interest in keeping them alive, or they wouldn't have let things go downhill so quickly.

And ha, one piece. He should probably tell her that his foot is going to detach from his ankle any day now.

"I'm going to go get a few things quickly," she tells him. "Stay here, please."

What the hell is she going to do? Everything he needs isn't here, apparently, except the water bottle that's still sitting next to him on the bench. He's only managed to take a few, even sips, and every single one has tasted like ash going down his throat, burning all the way through like everything was melting as he sat here.

Until now he's been leaning against the wall incrementally, but now he properly lowers himself back until he's slouched over, head in his hands because it makes the pulsing in his temple lesser, somehow. There's a thump on the bench beside him, but he doesn't move.

"Doctor looked at you?" Emmi asks.

"Doing that right now."

"Where is she?"

He shrugs, and feels Emmi lean back against the wall as well, shoulder brushing his for a second. "What about you?"

"Not much she can do about the multiple holes in my stomach, so I guess it'll have to wait."

He looks up at her, finally. Ria is sitting on her other side and he blinks a few times, ever surprised by the total silence she carries around. It's so quiet it almost is a noise itself.

Emmi snorts. "Believe me, you don't wanna see."

"Never said I did," he mumbles, and lowers his head back down. He doesn't want to do much of anything, really, except both of their faces look at least vaguely scrubbed clean, like someone allowed them access to running water and some soap. It's almost tempting enough to get up and ask for, but not quite. Cold water would probably just hurt.

There are more footsteps - he waits for the doctor to return, to pry his hands from his face as is if her life depends on it, but a near silent weight takes a seat on his other side and nearly knocks his water bottle over. He turns his head towards the sound and catches Icarus leaning against the wall, too, turning his very vacant eyes to the ceiling.

They're all staring at him like he's a sideshow freak, so he doesn't feel too bad about being the only one.

"How is he?" Emmi prompts. Icarus shrugs.

"Weren't you just in there?"

"They kicked me out," he says hoarsely, and then closes his eyes. Tarquin figures the conversation is about done, at that, expectantly. Icarus looks about as dead behind the eyes as he feels. Comrades in arms, and all that. If Icarus could walk properly he figures they would've heard a bit of commotion, experienced a bit of a fight put up about that. Or maybe he did, and Tarquin was just too out of it to notice.

He can't even begin to imagine what the four of them look like sitting here, all in a row, in various states of alive. They're riddled with too many holes, for one. Hungry, exhausted, still on the verge of dehydration, brain's all a soupy mess.

No longer bleeding, though. He feels like he should be, but he isn't.

He closes his eyes, too. He almost wants to be.

This would all make so much more sense if he was.

* * *

 **Cambria Mervaine, 49  
Former Head Gamemaker & Master of Ceremonies**

* * *

She's getting too old for this shit.

It's the only thing she can think as she settles back down in the car, leaving the keys dangling from the ignition but not doing a damn thing about it. Ferrox looks similarly stunned into silence in the passenger seat.

That's a fucking rarity if she's ever seen one.

"So," she says slowly. "That was a surprise."

"Is that what we're calling it?"

"If you'd rather call it _our son is detective material and probably going to be smug about it for the first time in his life_ than we can do that, too."

He doesn't smile. She didn't expect him to. "They're sending a team over."

"Of who?"

" _Representatives_ is what they told me. So whoever fucking Tate feels like he wants to send to confirm that we're not two dickhead liars."

"But we are."

"Oh, we are," he agrees. "But like, the motherfucker can't fly down here to check that five kids from a Program he approved are still alive after the other nineteen carked it somewhere in the desert? Fucker."

She considers that. "Dominika would have come."

He nods, a fingernail stuck between his teeth. "They're on orders to lock down a ward of the hospital, swear all the doctors and nurses that attend to them to secrecy."

"And how long do they think that's going to work?"

"You know the Presidency. They'll keep secrets for as long as they can."

Of course they will. They've been doing it since the beginning of time. Dominika did it the whole time she knew her, before she decided that murdering her seemed like a better option. Of course now they have Tate, who seems even worse, in retrospect. At least Dominika gave a shit. Even thinking about her that way seems odd, so many years later, but she did. It's impossible to deny.

"Those kids are a mess now," Ferrox says. "But once that stops, they're going to be angry. Full scorched earth angry. Someone did this. Someone that's still alive."

"Want me to put Atlas on the case?" she asks, and his lip quirks up. That'll be a solid _no_ from both of them; someone would have to step over their two dead bodies before they let either of their children get actively involved in this. One may have figured this out, the other may just be angry enough herself to willingly involve herself, but there's no way.

This wasn't really their thing, either, but now it is.

She looks at him, again. The two transport vehicles left for the hospital fifteen minutes ago.

"We're not going home, are we?" she asks.

He sighs. "Nope."

* * *

Another shorter chapter - apologies for that. They can't all be behemoths. But on a nicer note this is by far the shortest left and most of them are much, much longer. To be seen if that's a good thing or not.

Until next time.


	41. Who You Trust

XXXVIII: Fairfield Memorial Hospital - Independence, California.

* * *

 **Soran Faerber, 19  
Applicant #8**

* * *

Everything is white again.

It's different, this time. Foggier. Thicker.

And everything is moving at an odd pace. His brain... is his brain even working? It has to be, if he's having any sort of halfway coherent thoughts. He's not sure anything else is, though. His entire body feels weighed down, a heavy pressure stretching out and down each of his limbs. He can barely feel them as is; there's no telling if they're even there.

The only thing he can feel, without fail, is his heart steadily chugging it's way up to the bottom of his throat as it tries and fails to find reasoning for any of it.

And one thing he can hear, too, a horrifically loud beeping that's worming it's way directly into the his ears.

"Hey, hey," a voice says, and he hates how instantaneously he recognizes it. "It's alright. If you're awake, just— just try and calm down, you're okay."

Fat fucking chance of that happening, and what does Icarus think, that his voice is going to help? His voice has done nothing but stress him out since the minute Soran met him.

His eyes feel like they're glued shut. He knows without trying that even if he even attempts to open his mouth not a single word will come out; his throat feels like sandpaper. There's something plastic-like digging into his cheek just enough to set his nerves alight, the pressure edging up against his nose. He knows what it is before he can get a hand up to feel it, which is good because it takes ages and he moves it three whole inches before Icarus grabs him and holds him still.

"Quit moving. I don't want you to re-injure yourself all over again."

He cracks opens his eyes, and it burns. It's too bright. He closes them again before he can get a good look at any of his surroundings, just more white.

It almost looks like a hospital, but that doesn't make sense. It would explain the tubes leading into his nose.

He tries to look again, and it hurts just a fraction less. Everything's swimming. He'd say Icarus is actively helicopter parenting him but he can't really tell because it feels like he's looking right through him, his outline blurry and wavering with every passing second.

"Are you in a lot of pain?"

He can wiggle his toes, on further inspection. It takes more effort than he'd like to admit. His entire right side is just _numb,_ and his wrist down on the left side feels even worse. His chest, when he breathes, twinges with a familiar ache that he remembers from before...

He has no recollection of what happened _before._

"What?" he croaks, finally, the word dragged out like a nail.

"I can go get someone."

Icarus offers, but doesn't. He's still holding Soran's hand, which seems to be a reoccurring thing, and he hears a scrape along the floor before Icarus disappears for a moment, reappearing a few feet lower, sitting down next to him. He's laying down. He can barely move his fucking neck.

"We're in a hospital," Icarus explains. "In California. Not far from where they were keeping us. We've been here for three days."

He doesn't remember those three days, doesn't remember the time immediately before that. Just a vague, important urge to feel something but not having the energy to. Trying to breathe, but not...

It finally hits him, above everything else.

"Did I—?"

Icarus looks very fucking distraught, something he realizes gradually as his vision filters back in. Face turned down, eyebrows knitted together in concern. It's a look he's actually come to associate with him.

"Yeah," he says hoarsely. "Yeah, you did. Tarquin and I left. We got help, sort of. Help found us. We got back and you were just... gone. For at least a few minutes, until we got you back. The second we got here they put you in surgery to screw two of your ribs back together because they fucking shattered while we were doing CPR. Up until yesterday you had a tube sticking out of your chest to drain the fluid buildup that had acquired because of the hole in your lung that stretched from here to kingdom fucking come, apparently."

There's a few more words, after that. He sounds like he's on the verge of a lengthy breakdown, which is what Soran chooses to focus on in that moment instead of whatever he's rambling on about. He just looks sort of manic - there are still enough cuts and bruises scattered across his face to make it even worse.

He can't even imagine what his own face looks like.

"You just ignored everything I said, didn't you?" Icarus accuses, but instead of looking annoyed he just looks exhausted.

Well, same.

"Not all of it," he answers. Icarus stands up, doing so with an ease that doesn't match how he was walking before. Soran knows _something_ was wrong, just not what. He stretches out his fingers the second he lets go of them. Despite the numbness they don't seem to come back to life like he would expect them to.

"My hand is numb," he informs him, plainly, and Icarus grabs it again to turn it over, like he hasn't stared at it a hundred times while Soran's been out.

He knows he has.

"Nerve damage," Icarus says. "That's what they said anyway. From the bracelet, or from me nearly hacking your hand off to get rid of it. They said it could heal fine, if you give it time."

"Could."

"Yeah," he says quietly. "Guess you'll have to learn to be right-handed like the rest of us."

"Fuckin' boring," he mumbles, letting his head droop to the side. The tubes are digging into his neck, now, the skin there still tender and pulsating. He's not sure what position is worse. Everything hurts, in a distant way that doesn't require true agony but that's just present enough to be well and truly irritating. "Why are we here?"

"Are you actually going to listen to me?"

He shrugs, quickly proven to be a mistake. More pain crawls back up his side all the way to his shoulder and stays there.

"Sit still first," Icarus says, leaning up against the railings at the side of the bed. "You know Ferrox and Cambria Mervaine? They're the ones that showed up. You'd be dead if they hadn't. Hell, we probably all would. They got us out and they've been here every day since we arrived. The President knows we're alive; most of his inner circle too, I guess. He sent a group down here to make sure it was the truth, but besides that no one else knows except the people at the station and the doctors and nurses here. The ward's been locked down since we got here."

"What group?"

"Representatives, I guess." Icarus shrugs, too, and examines where he's holding onto the railing more intently than necessary before he meets Soran's eyes. Whatever was in them before is gone by the time he looks up.

He can see him caving, though, second by second. It would be sort of funny to watch it happen if his whole body didn't ache.

"If she's here—"

"She is."

"I don't want her in here."

"Well, I'm sorry to say you don't exactly have much power over that matter, and neither do I," Icarus snaps. "She's _here_ , what the fuck do you want me to do? I'm not her handler. I can't tell her where she can and can't go. I can't watch you twenty-four-fucking-seven to make sure she doesn't come in here - I've tried! They keep fucking dragging me out to give me injections so I can walk and giving me meds and food, God forbid I fucking eat—

"Stop," he says quietly. He'd, you know, reach a hand up and cover his mouth, but he can't really do that. Why does he even fucking need two IVs in his arm? Isn't two a bit overkill?

Maybe he does need them, because he's already exhausted all over again.

"I hate being here," Icarus says. "I fucking hate it. I didn't want to be in a fucking hospital all over again."

He can't be faulted for not thinking that way, not with how slow his brain is processing. He gets it then, finally.

"I'm not dead, you know," he tells him.

"You were, though," Icarus reminds him. "You fucking were."

It feels like he was, weirdly enough. His body is about ready to give up on him again; he'd be convinced his heart was, too, if he couldn't hear it beeping regularly on the monitor somewhere behind him.

"I'm not gonna fight _your_ sister if she wants in here. Just pretend you're sleeping."

"It's not gonna be pretend," he mumbles. His eyes are already halfway there. The drugs may not be getting rid of all the pain, but they're definitely reducing his willpower to stay awake. Icarus looks back at him, reaching over the railing to squeeze his hand. He can't feel it as much as before.

"Go to sleep. I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Where?" he asks, hoping the single word conveys what he's asking. It might, but he doesn't know, and it doesn't really matter anyway. Icarus says nothing when he lets go of his hand; his eyes are already closed by the time he hears the door click open and shut again.

He wishes he could do something, say something. Anything.

He can't, but he wishes he could.

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17**  
 **Applicant #13**

* * *

She turns the corner away from her sort-of room and finds Icarus crying in the main hall.

It's not the most surprising thing she's ever seen in her life.

It is, however, slightly concerning. He's hunched over no more than two feet away from the door and ignores her entirely when she nearly nudges him out of the way, slipper and all, to get a good peak into the room. It definitely _looks_ like Soran hasn't gone and died all over again, at least according to the monitor. Hopefully if it had happened again he wouldn't just be on the floor crying.

She crouches down next to him. "Rough day?"

Try rough few weeks, really, but there's not much they can do about that.

"You know, I cried in the shower yesterday," she tells him. "First shower they let me have and I just started crying. Wasn't even thinking about anything in particular."

He nods, or at least she thinks he does. It's hard to tell when his entire upper body is shaking. It's not entirely the truth, either. She wasn't thinking about anything in particular but rather a lot all at once. It was the first time she had been properly left alone with the door locked behind her, watching the pink-tinged water swirl down the drain.

It had been easier than she would've liked to cry her eyes out. It's probably something they're all going to have to do, though, at one point or another. It's inevitable.

"He woke up," Icarus explains.

"Oh," she says slowly. "That's good? How is he?"

"I should've went and got a doctor, or something. He's in pain still, I think, he needs more—"

"Alright," she interrupts, getting back to her feet. "Calm down, I'll go get someone. You just stay here and do... whatever it is you were doing."

Letting it all out, finally, and not caring about the repercussions of it. There's almost no one around to see it. The front desk area is around the corner, although there's a little cozy sitting area too. There's been half a dozen people in and out of it for the past three days, the group from the Capitol. And Pandora Quinn, right now, eyeballing the two of them in a way that doesn't exactly scream subtlety.

"Does she know?" Emmi asks, finally nudging him. He looks up.

"Well, none of us have told her?"

"He told the guard at the station though, did he not? They probably told her."

Pandora must sense that something's up, if not what exactly. She gets to her feet before Emmi's eyes, painfully slow, as if unsure of the movement.

"If you don't want to talk to her in this state I suggest fleeing the premises," she recommends. Icarus lifts an arm up without looking to wiggle the door handle until it pops open again, and then scoots back without lifting himself from the floor all the way into the room, until he can shut the door again.

That doesn't deter Pandora in the slightest. She keeps on walking until she's only a few feet away and only then do her footsteps slow, incrementally.

Oh, they've got people afraid now. This is sort of funny.

She's seen Pandora a few times, all through a screen. In photographs or on a news broadcast. She never looked so small as she really does; she's barely cresting five feet and is slight of frame, like a stiff breeze could take her away. She realizes, with a sort of hilarity, that even Ria doesn't look so fragile. Or maybe she just doesn't think of her that way anymore.

"Do you know?" she asks, and Pandora's feet finally come to a halt, leaving one very wide foot of space between them.

"Know what?"

She raises an eyebrow. Pandora looks slightly troubled and her eyes flick to the door more than once, as if she wants in. She'd have to barrel through Emmi to get there.

It's a good thing her stomach doesn't hurt so much anymore.

"The guard told me."

"Do you believe him?"

"I don't need to," Pandora says. "I asked my mother. She's good at knowing things. Not so good at choosing to share them."

She blinks. "Your mother knew?"

"If I knew my father, him getting sent away along with his mother was more her doing than his. But it's not like I can ask him."

Carnelia put a bullet in Renatus Quinn's head nine years ago, and Soran crashed their car and effectively ended her for good. She hasn't felt the urge to laugh in days, longer than that, but it almost bubbles up then.

What goes around comes around, she guesses.

Pandora's eyes trail to the door once again and stay there. Emmi can see hardly nothing at all from this angle, and she has no doubt that Pandora's view is even lesser. She never got the privilege of a sibling, not even the promise of one. Her mother was too sick when she was younger to think about it, her father too heartbroken after it to move on and consider it.

It's hard to understand those feelings when you've never been privy to having them.

"They also told me that his heart stopped," Pandora says. "That it was really bad."

"Bad is a word people use if they weren't there," she responds. "I'd use nightmare."

That's what all of this has always felt like - a fucking nightmare, one that she keeps waiting to wake up from. Sometimes she thinks she died when she fell off that cliff and is stuck in some sort of hellish in-between, trying to convince her brain that things can and will get better. She wouldn't have had to kill anyone that way. She wouldn't have had to suffer.

She wouldn't still be suffering right now.

"Are you okay?" Pandora asks. Her hand twitches, like she wants to step forward and grab onto Emmi's arm, offer some form of comfort. "Are you—"

"You don't have to pretend to care about the rest of us."

"I _do,_ " Pandora insists. "It's not just about him. I asked the President's permission to come before I even found out. Of course... of course that complicates things, but it's not that. This is all my fault. I was the deciding vote. If I had voted no none of you would have been out there - none of this would have happened. You'd be safe."

"Are you saying we're not safe?"

"I'm going to make sure you are."

It actually sounds like a promise, voice a level higher and a shade more determined. Her voice is too big for her body.

Maybe that's something they need.

"They told you everything?" she asks. " _Everything_?"

"Everything."

"And that doesn't change anything for you?"

They're not victors - they're fucking murderers. This wasn't about some sort of grand prize, some sort of scheduled yearly event. They got locked into a more terrible version of the bloodsport that raised them and made it even worse.

Pandora looked scared before, but now Emmi's beginning to doubt the source of it. There's no fear when they lock eyes, when Pandora shakes her head.

Emmi's scared of this place, of the threat of something else happening. Of the future.

And Pandora almost looks like she's afraid of the same thing.

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16**  
 **Applicant #17**

* * *

Ria was eleven the last time she was in a hospital.

Her grandmother, her only surviving one, died three days before her birthday. It was a cold, cold day in February and her parents had been in the room when it happened. She had been in the closest waiting room, trying to put together a puzzle meant for five year olds. She hadn't figured it out before it happened.

After the fact, her father had asked her if she wanted to see her one last time. Hug her, kiss her cheek, say anything.

She hadn't.

And it sort of feels like that now, except her parents aren't coming to collect her and her grandmother isn't dead in a room down the hall. There aren't any toys or puzzles. Not even a magazine.

There's just a nurse doing some paperwork behind the front desk, and he's occasionally looking at her like she's about to shoot up the place.

She has half a mind to go off in search of Tarquin, but if he's not with her he's usually off with a doctor or napping. Both things he's earned.

There's nothing to do here. Nothing to take her mind off the numerous things swirling around in it like someone walked one too many laps around the pool that is her brain. It's a repeating process. Remember this person you killed? Remember this thing you stood by and watched? Remember trying to avoid the sight of your own blood? And boy, does she remember.

"Isperia, correct?"

She pulls herself slightly out of the chair she's nestled into but goes no further. Her legs are staying curled up here for the next century if she has any choice in the matter. One of the women that's been wandering around here the past few days is hovering over her, although she's not the most imposing. Her eyes are very kind. Kinder than most things Ria's seen lately.

She nods, and the woman smiles. "Do you need anything?"

Lots of things, really, but she shakes her head this time. "Who are you?"

"Eriska Maclain. Eriska is fine though, dear. Do you mind if I sit? I have a few emails to check over."

She nods, which is apparently all she can do. Eriska takes a seat in a similar chair two over, not too close to her, and gets to work tapping away at her tablet, otherwise silent. Ria's seen her a lot these past few days, off with Pandora, and neither of them have done anything obviously offensive that she's aware of. And Eriska isn't bugging her now, though she certainly could. It's not like Ria has anywhere to run to where someone couldn't find her.

It doesn't take very long for someone else to show up, though, and this time there's two of them to make up for it. They don't attempt to hide their rather obvious path, making it clear that they're coming towards her, _for_ her, long before they get there.

When they do she regrets the few seconds she had to take off.

The woman sticks her hand straight out, a mere few inches from hitting her in the chest. "Eleine Tarigan. Nice to meet you. This is my associate, Andere Vukovic. We'd like to ask you a few questions if you have the time."

She has the time, but doesn't want to. There's a big difference. Eriska looks up, eyes skimming briefly over the two newcomers, and her kind eyes morph into something else. Maybe not so kind to them.

Ria hasn't given a yes or no either way, but that doesn't deter Eleine. "We're aware that there's five of you here - are you certain beyond a doubt that the other nineteen applicants didn't survive?"

She blinks, imagining that her eyes appear quite owl-like. "I— yes?"

"And the supposed Sentinels, you say? How many of them were there? Are you certain that they're all dead as well?"

Which of those is she supposed to answer first? Do they want them both together? She can't remember for the life of her how many there were. She has no clue if there are more out there, lurking, that she has no idea about. She's not sure if Eriska looks genuinely curious herself or progressively more annoyed by the minute, although she'd bet on the latter. No one should be curious about that, really.

"Miss Martorell," Andere picks up. His glasses make his eyes look impossibly huge, sort of like a fish. "There's been a patrol searching for the bodies these past three days, but they haven't been able to... find them all. Would you know—"

"That'll be quite enough, thank-you," Eriska interrupts, and she closes the case to her tablet with a snap.

"But—"

"Thank-you, Miss Tarigan. You too, Mr. Vukovic."

Ria's aware of the fact that she's said two words this entire time, but that may be because nothing else is coming to mind. _They can't find all the bodies._ How many are missing? Did whoever shot Mel come back for him, after she killed him? How are they even supposed to know?

Eleine smiles, a spectacularly plastic looking thing, and gives a curt nod before she click-clacks her way back down the all. Andere stares at her for a moment longer with his weird fishy eyes before he follows.

Without realizing it Eriska has stepped to her side yet again, and lays a hand on her arm, silently.

"How many?" she asks thickly.

"Three. It was five, yesterday, but forensics identified two more bodies that they picked up. Burned beyond recognition."

She swallows the sob. She knew— she _knew_ Caiman never made it out of there, stared back at the smoke even while she got dragged away from it, but Jay...

How can she even still be called a human being after what she did to Jay, after she destroyed him?

"Who else?"

"Meliodas Vergara. And both of the Westmorelands."

She presses her hands into her eyes but the burn only intensifies, and if she drops her hands she's going to start crying all over again. How she hasn't run dry is beyond her.

"I don't know," she says weakly. "I don't—"

"It's alright," Eriska says, squeezing her arm. "You don't have to. You don't have to answer any questions coming from strangers, either. In fact, I'd recommend not. Decide who you trust before you start telling them anything."

People are going to want answers - it's only natural. These people were clearly sent here as part of the group the President put together; they're allowed to be here, allowed to roam around and harass them and get the answers the whole country will want, shortly. She may be able to stay silent now but that's not going to work forever, much as she wishes it would.

It's the only thing that feels good right now, along with being alive in the first place. Being able to keep quiet.

It's not going to last, though.

Nothing is.

* * *

And after a brief lull (yes that's what we're calling it) we'll start getting back into things. About time.

I attempted to edit this with the most delirious of head colds in the world so we're just gonna ignore that and take some pity on me. Or hope I die whatever happens first.

Until next time.


	42. And Who You Never Should

XXXVIII: Fairfield Memorial Hospital - Independence, California.

* * *

 **Tarquin Vierra, 16  
Applicant #4**

* * *

They finally take him off the drugs at the end of the third day.

He misses them a lot, on the fourth day. It wasn't a total numbing experience but it helped quell that feeling when his brain got all up in arms with him.

He learns to get over it, on the fifth day, because they clearly aren't giving him anything else.

Skin grafts are a pain in the ass, he learned. The main doctor whose name he can't remember, if he ever knew it, has done a whole lot of explaining in his time here. Most of it has revolved around how much the process has evolved in the past hundred years or so. It takes mere days to fix things like this, now, and although they don't have the technology of the Capitol out here in middle of nowhere, California, it won't scar like it used to.

The doctor uses the term _pre-Panem_ a lot for someone who clearly never lived there.

His skin isn't perfectly normal. Won't be ever again, unless he goes to a proper hospital in the Capitol and gets it fixed. Those types of procedures were something even his parents could barely afford, and they had always been beyond well-off.

Most of it's his legs and feet, anyway, which he can't see most of the time. The skin at his wrist and at the palms of his hands is tender and even a bit itchy, slightly rippled like someone disturbed a lake with a small skipping stone. You really wouldn't know unless you were making a point to stare, but he knows, and he can't stop touching it no matter how many times he's been told not to.

The holes they've sewn up at his ankle don't look as terrible as he expected them to, really. Still, he can't even begin to wrap his head around the reactions of his parents. Someone's going to cry, and it's probably going to be him. He's not going to last more than a second after he looks them in the eye.

His friends are more troublesome because he doesn't think they'll care about what he's done, so much, and he would almost want them to. Hell, Velia would probably be proud of him with all the times she's whacked him with a prop sword.

It's just putting that to good use, really.

He's been mulling over this for too long, really, but it's about the time of day that the nurse always comes to check on him, and just after seven she pokes her head in the door. As always she looks slightly surprised to see him just sitting there, perfectly awake.

You think she'd have gotten used to it by now.

"Need anything?"

"I'm good."

She's one of the only ones who seems to spend time around him without acting weird about it. All of the others look afraid to even touch him. He knows what's circulating - the number thirteen in comparison to everyone else, but they don't get it.

They think him a cold-blooded killer, like he hunted them all down for the sport of it.

It couldn't be further away from the truth.

She used to bring him food, is the thing, and now she doesn't. She's now trying to starve him out, essentially, and coax him into eating with whoever else is sitting out there at the time.

It worked yesterday morning, but no one else was out there.

"Food's out, if you want some," she offers, because she _knows_ how predictable he is at this point.

It's just weird, feeling this way. Before someone would have to drag him kicking and screaming away from the masses, from the best of the conversation and the chances of things happening. Now he just wants to avoid them altogether.

He's talked to Ria a few times, or rather sat out there with her in relative silence. Emmi, when she talks to him, must think she's only talking to herself.

He's listening, though. He just hasn't figured out what to say yet.

Long after she's left, closing the door behind her, he pulls himself to the side of the bed and drops down with a sigh. It's hard to go easy on his feet without becoming entirely immobile, and they've told him it's safe to walk. It's trusting _anyone_ when they say the word safe that's the tricky part.

He can't lie, though - even the _smell_ of food makes him wanna die in the best way possible. He nearly cried when someone gave him something other than water to drink for the first time. He doesn't know what it is, this time, but the smell is filling the hallways, making it all the more easy to come out.

Ria's already there, working away at a bowl of something he can't quite make out. Emmi is making one for herself, too, but stops to lob him a bottle of juice that he cradles against his chest, unwilling to let go of it.

Apparently they're all in the same boat with the whole water thing.

He watches Ria scoot a ways down the bench and then sits down next to her, rolling the juice bottle between his hands.

A moment later Emmi plops down her bowl in front of him, and then goes back to making another one.

Ria smiles around her fork, and then reaches down the table to grab him one as well. It's some sort of pasta, smothered in red sauce. For a hospital the food's really not all that bad.

Then again, you could probably feed him the most terribly-prepared food in existence right now and he'd think it was delicious.

"Where's Icarus?" he asks, as Emmi drops himself on the bench across from him.

"Probably protesting by locking himself in the shower."

"Protesting what?"

"Pandora wants to talk to us all, like properly. She said during dinner so... now, I guess? He said he was coming but I'll believe it when I see it."

"Does anyone know what about?"

Emmi shrugs, shoving a forkful of pasta in her mouth.

"I heard some of the nurses talking earlier," Ria says. "I think we're about good to go - well us, at least. I don't know about Soran."

"Hey, he was walking this morning," Emmi points out. "Sort of."

Tarquin doesn't even _really_ want to walk, now with the odd numbness in parts of his feet, so he can't imagine Soran wants to be.

"So, what?" he asks. "Are we going home?"

As if anyone here knows. That information is being held by other people who they may or may not be able to trust. Home doesn't even sound real, at this point. It sounds more like a distant possibility that's getting further away with every passing day.

There's too many things that could go wrong. If they send them all home, then they have to reveal the truth. Everyone will know what they did.

It's sort of sick that no one will really care about what he did, at least not in comparison to the others. He may have done the most damage but he didn't take anyone's child, anyone's sibling, anyone's best friend...

No, he just killed them _all_ , so he can't really say that.

"Hopefully," Emmi mutters eventually, though she doesn't seem too convinced about it. Ria chews very slowly through what appeared to be a minuscule bite of pasta to avoid saying anything at all.

At least that hasn't really changed.

The nurse watching them from down the hall turns to go when Pandora shows up. She hurries over, dragging a chair to the end of the table instead of just sitting down next to any of them. Oddly enough, he feels like he's about to get scolded by a teacher for something that wasn't even really his fault.

"Sorry about that," she says. She puts something on the table in front of her - a notebook, and then a tablet. "I was just speaking with one of the doctor's."

"About?" Emmi asks.

Pandora seems to realize then how still they all are, watching her in silence. "About how everything's going, with each of you."

"So we're right, then? Are we getting out of here soon?"

Pandora looks slightly worried. Something in his stomach turns and flops over a half a dozen times in the space of a few seconds.

"Does anyone know if—"

"Icarus said he was coming. Don't know about Soran."

This is so many levels of convoluted he's having trouble wrapping his brain around i; he can't even begin to imagine what they're going to be told. What choice they'll have in it, if any. It doesn't seem like there's any real possibility of that happening.

"Well, I'd like to wait for him," Pandora says, offering no solution as to what they'll do in the meanwhile. Stare at each other? Should he just eat his food and mind his own business?

"No need," Icarus announces, appearing so suddenly that Tarquin nearly slips off the bench. He sits down next to Emmi with a thud, hair slightly damp. Well, at least he didn't lock himself in the shower.

Not that Tarquin would blame him, really.

"So," he continues. "What awful thing is about to transpire now?"

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17  
Applicant #10**

* * *

The funniest thing about Pandora is that they'd get along perfectly, in other circumstances.

Both loaded to the teeth, growing up without a care in the world. Parents that both made a lot of fucking mistakes, evidently. He doesn't even dislike her, has no reason to, but the look in her eyes reflected back at him whenever he meets hers is something else.

She doesn't know what to say to him.

Maybe she knows about him and Soran, maybe she doesn't. They've been holed up in the same room for long enough that it's not exactly a secret.

But whatever she's thinking when she looks at him, he has no idea. Maybe the whole murdering two border guards thing has gotten to her.

Maybe it's everyone else he killed.

She looks down the hall, over his shoulder to a point none of them can see.

"He's sleeping," he tells her. "And I'm not waking him up for whatever bullshit we're about to hear."

"Fair," she concedes. "You'll tell him, then?"

She no doubt wants to tell Soran herself, but she won't. She actually wouldn't dare, he guesses. He's seen her within ten feet of the door a dozen times, now, but she's never gone in unless the nurse has been lying to him. Even when he's been awake or trying to walk she hasn't showed up.

Icarus shrugs. Soran will probably drag it out of him if he doesn't fess up anyway.

"Alright, then," she starts. He'd never say it aloud, but she really looks like she could use some sleep. "I've been consulting with the doctor's all day, talking about your conditions. They've all come to the agreement that there's not much else to do for you here. The President has decided—"

"You're seriously taking him out of here?" he interrupts. "He can barely walk."

"And that will come back with rest," she says. "He doesn't have to do that here. There's no point in keeping all five of you cooped up here for a few more weeks until he's fully recovered. Besides, we're bringing a doctor on site. Someone on stand-by in case we need them."

"On-site _where_?" Emmi asks.

"Not home," Ria says quietly. He knew it. He fucking _knew it_ \- he'd rather go back to One with his grand total of nothing, or even back to his parents, before he allows whatever this is to happen.

It's not like he gets a fucking choice. When has he ever?

"It's been agreed upon that the five of you are coming back to the Capitol with us; you'll be staying with me at the family estate—"

"Oh, you're fucking kidding me."

Nothing has been surprising him lately, nothing except for Soran's voice whenever he wakes and his voice _right now_ , decidedly not tucked away in his room or sleeping like he was five minutes ago.

He's also got no one with him, nothing to hold onto except the wall that he's clutching at for dear life.

"I just said you could barely walk, are you trying to make me look like an asshole?" he snaps, although he's already halfway there by the time Soran even opens his mouth to respond.

"I don't have to do much to make that happen."

"God," he manages, grabbing a hold of his arm. "You're just asking to fall over at this point."

"Hey, I took a whole like, ten minute shower this morning. Give me some credit."

"Yeah, with someone waiting outside the door in case you _did_ fall over."

He grabs his other arm, then, before he can do something stupid with it like lift it up and wave at her, for christ's sake. Pandora is pretty much already openly staring at him, trying to do that and deal with an increasingly angry Emmi at the same time.

"This is the fucking worst," Soran decides, although Icarus would beg to differ. Him being dead was a lot worse - even his scratchy, wheezy voice from a few days ago is more terrible than this.

But he gets it.

"So, when did _we_ agree to this?" Emmi spits. "I don't remember being asked about this."

"No one knows about you - you know that," Pandora points out. "While we try to figure out how to release this, we want to make sure you're all safe."

"And contained," Soran mutters.

"Then just fucking release it!" Emmi says. "There's nothing stopping you."

"We're looking _not_ to create a shockwave with this. Something like this could create an open rebellion if we're not careful."

If Icarus is being honest, and he usually is, he thinks that all five of them would prefer open rebellion to whatever this is. He feels like a fucking prisoner right now. There's no bars, nothing confining him, but if he tried to take one step out of this ward someone would stop it. They wouldn't even let him outside.

"This was a mistake," Soran says.

"What was?"

"Living. And also coming out here."

"Alright, let's go," he says, letting go briefly with one hand to allow himself a wave. Just because Soran can't do doesn't mean he can't do it himself. "Great fucking plan, let me know when we're leaving!"

 _So I can hide_ , is what he leaves out, because it's pointless anyway. They're going whether they like it or not. He thinks he hears Pandora's sigh even from here, something beyond tired. This isn't her, not really. She'd get them back home if she could.

He does trust that, stupid as it sounds. He still believes she's on their side.

Only when Soran is seated on the edge of his bed yet again does he allow himself to breathe, feeling like he needs it now more than usual. You'd think it was him with the lung injuries.

"Think we can pull an escape?" Soran asks. It's a funny thought with how tired he sounds.

"Sure. Let me know how jumping out the window goes."

Soran actually turns around to look outside as if considering it, and he scoffs. They're at least three stories up, maybe four. It wouldn't end well, especially not in his already fragile condition. Icarus doesn't know if his brain would survive Soran chasing after death like he wants it more than anything else.

"I really don't wanna do this," Soran says eventually. When Icarus turns to look he's staring blankly at the opposite wall, like he's wishing it's going to open up a way out of this.

"I know," he says. "Believe me, I don't either."

Really, though, when you think about how the past two weeks have gone, what's traveling to the Capitol and being safe? They probably just sound like ungrateful little shits.

And he is, thank you very much.

Soran lays back down, gingerly, but he doesn't move out of the way just yet. He's to the point where he can curl up a little bit anyway, so long as he keeps the weight off of his rather torn-apart side.

"I shouldn't have even gotten up."

He hums in agreement - that's why he told him to go to sleep in the first place, because it either wasn't going to be important enough or it wasn't going to be worth his time. On one hand it's good that Soran has finally regained the fortitude to rebel against him. On the other hand he wants to say _I told you so_ all over again.

"When was the last time you slept?"

"Last night?"

"You fell asleep in a chair _in here_ for like, three hours tops."

"And?"

The glare Soran points at him is weak, half hidden by the arm he has curled mostly over his face against the light. He's completely adapted to sleep deprivation at this point - it's essentially his best friend, a very consistent ally in this whole mess.

"Go sleep in a fucking bed for one night," Soran mutters. "Maybe I won't wake up with you _staring at me_ for once."

"Don't act like you haven't gotten used to that."

"Oh, I have. Doesn't mean it's not creepy as hell."

One day his brain is going to give out on him as a result of this, but he really does hate being here. His brain doesn't allow him to sleep like it would anywhere else. Hell, he slept better out in the valley. Somehow, out there he felt less like something was about to happen than he does in here, and it doesn't make any sense. Soran even nudges him in the leg with the heel of his foot, as if to tell him to to leave once and for all. It might work if he had more strength in his legs.

It might work if Icarus felt the need to leave.

Soran reaches out, waving an arm aimlessly around until Icarus grabs a hold of it. Instead of pushing him off like he so expected Soran drags him forward, until he nearly faceplants into the foot of space left at the left side of the bed, tucked between him and the opposite railing.

"What if I had just squashed you?"

"It would've really hurt," Soran says flatly. "Go to sleep."

"I'm not sleeping in here."

"Then shut up and let me sleep, at least."

Icarus is still sitting enough upright that he probably wouldn't be able to sleep without his entire body aching by tomorrow morning. He looks down at Soran, burrowing even further into his hopeful little hole of sleep.

"I could roll over and smother you, you know."

"That'd be unfortunate."

"I'm serious."

"This bed is like, twice the size of normal hospital beds."

"Bringing out all the stops for the honorary Quinn," he says, although allows himself to sink a few inches lower regardless.

"Fuck off," Soran answers, although there's no venom in it. In fact, he almost sounds a little amused. Maybe he's finally coming around to the whole idea of this, or maybe he's just accepted that there's no getting rid of Pandora at this point. They're in too deep.

He looks over, slightly down. Soran's face is almost entirely covered by his damn arm, so he reaches up and lifts it off, grabbing his hand and tangling their fingers together before he can get it back. Soran makes a noise, perhaps half a complaint, but doesn't do anything else. It already sounds like he's half asleep, unwilling to fight it.

Good. He wasn't planning on giving it back anyway.

He feels like he shouldn't, _knows_ he shouldn't, but curling up by his side allows him to close his eyes a little bit easier. It's just the right amount of warmth, the level of reassurance that calms his usual racing heart when he imagines waking up in here yet again.

And to think, where they were two weeks ago...

It doesn't matter much, now.

* * *

I realized this was unedited and un-author's note-ed like maybe ten minutes ago so here, have a very poorly edited chapteer as if they're all not poorly edited, if they're edited at all!

I posted a little (ha) thing tied into my universe and victor's a few days ago so if you're bored and have a spare several hours, feel free to go make my day and check that out. Or not. You do you.

Until next time.


	43. The Roses

XL: En-route.

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16**  
 **Applicant #17**

* * *

It feels weird packing up to head off and not... having anything to pack.

The border guards took everything they had; who knows where any of that ended up. Pandora has assured them that anything they could possibly need will be waiting for them, and that even if something's missing she'll be sure to get it for them.

It doesn't make her feel as good as she ought to. She feels like she needs to be carrying something - she _needs_ to be doing something with her hands other than endless fidgeting.

Eventually she shoves them into the pockets of her sweater and takes a hold of the fabric on the inside. She'll keep them still one way or another.

They've been told what's going on, one way or another. They're leaving before dawn, even, shuffled out a discreet side entrance and into a large, transport like truck. The windows are so blacked out she can't even tell what's on the other side. Even the thought of piling back into a vehicle with everyone else makes her want to be sick, but one of the nurses leads her downstairs when she announces she's ready to go, and she isn't left with much of a choice.

She steps outside, just barely. There's a rough two feet between the car and the side door, just enough to get a faceful of dust from the desert wind. The sky is overcast. It's weird.

Not weirder than anything else, but weird.

There's another nurse blocking the view from the east - one of the men who came with the group from the Capitol is standing to the west. She's got nowhere to run even if she wanted to try, not unless she wants to run back in the hospital for whatever asinine reason. No, she just has the car to get into. Nowhere else.

At least this way no one's grilling her.

She climbs gingerly into the car. She's relieved to see Soran and Icarus already inside, having claimed the back bench. She had almost started to believe that they would cart them all of separately, lying to them once again, pulling all of this apart by the seams. She edges to the opposite window and takes a seat, shoving her hands back in her pockets once again.

"I've got a weird feeling about this," Icarus announces, like all of them haven't had a bad feeling for two weeks now. At this point that's an ingrained part of her personality. A permanent fixture, if you would.

"I'm trying not to go there yet," she says, glancing back at them. Icarus humphs, the resounding squeaks of the seat underneath him the only sound she can hear besides it as he tries and fails to get comfortable. Soran cracks an eye open to look at her, leaned against the window, and then closes it again. She really _is_ trying not to go there, not before she has proof that it's valid, but it's hard to feel any other sort of way.

Emmi joins them some ten minutes later, grumbling something under her breath still when she settles into the seat behind Ria's. She gives the nurse at the door a pointed glance and he goes two shades from completely white in the face, disappearing like a ghost.

"What'd you do to him?" she asks.

"He was rushing me."

"That didn't answer the question," Soran points out.

"You know, I'd reach back there and hit you if I wasn't afraid that one hit would kill you."

"Nah, aim for his legs," Icarus says.

" _Hey_ ," Soran protests. "Seriously. You want someone to leave you alone these days, just threaten to off them. They'll believe you."

"I'll keep that in mind."

People will believe them because they're perfectly capable of it, now, because they're killers and they could easily do it again given enough reason to. Icarus already _has_ , although she didn't see it herself. She believes what Tarquin said he saw well enough.

Speaking of, she sees him from a distance, flanked by Pandora and the man that had been standing outside the car, who quickly reclaims his position until Tarquin is seated beside her. The door slamming shut shakes the entire vehicle, followed by Pandora climbing into the passenger seat and then the man behind the wheel. Whoever he is, he must just be here for protection purposes, keeping an eye on them all. He hasn't said a word to her.

Not like Eleine and Andere, although they've kept away since Eriska spoke to them. At least with her.

"Alright, guys," Pandora starts. "Airfield's only about ten minutes away. We'll be taking a hovercraft from there directly to the Capitol, as close as we can get to the Estate. And then just an even shorter car ride there. It'll only take a few hours."

"Yay," Emmi deadpans, although the look on Pandora's face isn't dampened any. She's learning, apparently. Or maybe just getting used to them.

"Am I the only one that hardly slept?" Tarquin asks quietly, though she can tell it's meant for her and her alone. She waits until the car starts fully, pulling slowly away from the side of the building.

"I don't think anyone did, really."

She hasn't been sleeping well _period_ and she was under the impression that he hadn't been either. These circles under their eyes aren't just bruises. It doesn't help that the hospital beds were less comfortable even than the desert floor, that there was always a set of footsteps walking by or a quiet voice out in the hall.

It wasn't their pseudo-arena, but it brought her back there. All the paranoia started to resurface, hearing those things that she couldn't quite place, wondering if they were coming for her next...

"I hope whatever this Estate looks like, it has a nice bed for me to sleep in," Tarquin says. For someone who apparently spent a while wandering around and sleeping in the mines she'll be surprised if he ever manages to get a good night's rest in a bed again. She imagines they all feel sort of the same way, and that a bed will never be the same thing it was before.

"It's been in the family for five generations," Pandora breaks in. "You could get lost in it."

Is that a good thing, or a bad thing? Ria honestly can't tell, and judging by Tarquin's face he's contemplating the same thing. It may just be easier to get away from anyone watching her than she thought, but sometimes getting lost isn't always a good thing. Sometimes it just makes things worse.

She doesn't need her physical body as lost as her brain already is.

Pandora says something else - Ria ends up leaning her head against the window and whatever words they were are drowned out. If they're important someone will let her know. If they matter, she'll find out eventually.

Besides, her brain has never been good at calming down. Her teachers always commented that she fixated on too many things at once, always said that she should focus on one thing at a time before moving onto the next. Of course they always wrote the stereotypical notes on her reports, too, about participating in class and possibly being encouraged by her parents to do more. And her parents encouraged her, alright. It just didn't do much good if she refused to listen.

It was just another thing to think about, among the millions she already had.

She sees the hovercraft from a distance, tucked out in the middle of nowhere. It's smaller, sleeker. Much more sophisticated than the one they had boarded trying to leave originally. When she looks around she can't even see the hospital anymore - she can't see _anything_ for a few miles. It feels less like an airfield and more like a strategically chosen location, picked to avoid any prying eyes lurking around.

"Do you know if Ferrox and Cambria are coming with?" Tarquin murmurs. Pandora has taken up with the driver and doesn't hear.

"I don't know. Probably not?"

"It'd be nice to have someone on our side, I guess." It would, and she gets it. No one else has gone out of their way to save the lot of them; Pandora _appears_ as if she's trying but there's no proving that just yet.

Only two people have bothered putting any amount of time and effort into keeping them alive, and they're probably leaving them behind.

It's not the most reassuring thought she's ever had.

Ria keeps her head down when they all file out of the car, Pandora leading the way closer and closer to the hovercraft. The back ramp is already down, and even the buffeting wind isn't enough to chase her inside. She feels the hesitation in everyone else, too, before the first of Emmi's feet hit the ramp and she makes her way inside, shaking the hesitance off.

The last time they did this...

It can't happen again. The Sentinels are gone.

They made sure of that, after all.

Instead of focusing on it, the metal ramp under her feet and the sudden absence of wind as she properly steps inside, she allows herself to wonder about them. Did they collect the Sentinel bodies, too? They found Carnelia, after all, and they know about the others. They had families once upon a time. Some probably still do.

She'd want her parents to have closure, if she had died. She doesn't get the feelings these families will be quite so fortunate.

And what about the other applicants, too? Are they just going to hold onto them until the information releases? She can't help but think of the nineteen bodies, locked away somewhere for safekeeping until their families can have them back.

Sixteen, really. No one's told her anything about Mel. Noelani or Topher neither.

Looking at Tarquin every now and then, she gets the feeling he doesn't know, and she's not about to be the one to bring it up.

"Alright, everyone can take a seat. The Captain is going to do one last check and then we'll be off."

No one moves, lingering in a half-formed group between the two rows of seats, across a small aisle from one another. While the outside looked quite different, the inside is eerily similar. She remembers the feeling of not being able to move, the metal restraints locked around her ankles.

"You're not strapping me into one of those," Icarus informs her, but it feels like he's speaking for everyone. "I'll sit still, but there's no way."

"Deal," Pandora says softly. "If there's turbulence—"

Icarus snorts, a clear _as if_ without any actual words behind it. He leads Soran off down the left row and a second later both Emmi and Tarquin follow. There's a time where she wouldn't have went after them for a second, where she would have found a seat elsewhere, in silence.

This is probably going to be silent anyway, so she sits down at the end of them next to Tarquin and pulls both of her legs up onto the seat after her, far away from any type of restraints.

Pandora is still across the way. She sits down in the aisle seat in a similar silence, watching them all carefully only until Ria glances over. She's never seen anyone look away so fast.

"I mean, how bad can it go, right?" Emmi says. "If last time was rock bottom—"

"We can only go up?" Tarquin finishes.

Icarus snorts again.

Yeah, that's about how she feels as well.

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17  
Applicant #10**

* * *

His body is essentially a live-wire.

If someone even _looked_ at him in the wrong way right now he'd blow. It feels like every muscle in his body is locked tight, coiled, bracing for impact that doesn't happen when the hovercraft takes off and continues on as smoothly as one can go.

Pandora watches their every move, trying to gauge their reactions, and he forces blankness over his face, a mask that doesn't betray how badly his stomach is turning at the thought of even being in here.

Soran, evidently the luckiest bastard alive excluding the brush with death, falls asleep five minutes after they leave the ground behind. Icarus can't really blame him for it - they gave him something before they took him off the last of IVs, and when he's not eating or risking life and limb to walk around without supervision, he's been sleeping anyway.

If only he could do the same. This whole trip would pass a hell of a lot faster if he could sleep through the vast majority of it.

Everyone else is trying, too, with varying levels of success. No one besides Soran actually looks properly asleep. He should have known as much - it's not going to come that easy just yet, and he's only saying _yet_ because he has approximately half an ounce of hope that it'll be easier in the future. It doesn't seem like much, but with him, it's more than you'd usually get.

He hears the footsteps coming, soft and cautious, while his eyes are half-lidded, allowing just enough filtered light through to see Pandora sit down just across from them. Everyone looks - everyone glances away just as quick.

"Staring at him while he's asleep probably _is_ your safest bet," he murmurs.

Pandora's lips quirk up. "That's not what I'm doing."

"What are you doing, then?"

"Thinking. I've got a lot of it to do."

Thinking doesn't seem like the right word, or maybe it is... he's not sure how to phrase it. Really she's just trying to piece everything together and they're stuck with all of the useless thinking, everything swirling around in their heads like a goddamn blender.

He got rid of the sick feeling that arose from being stuck in a hospital again, and replaced it with the memory of a hovercraft.

"I'm not asking you - or him, for that matter, to trust me. I'm not even asking for you to like me. I can't expect that from people who hardly know me. Just know that there are people out there who don't care what you want, or what you don't want. I'm _trying_ to look out for your best interests."

"None of us want to be here."

"One of the other options was locking you back up," she says quietly. "Not prison, exactly... not like what they were doing to you at Witsonee. But they wanted you completely locked down. I got them to agree to at least let me take you."

"Oh, the life of a hardened criminal," Emmi laments, leaning back in her seat. Sooner rather than later he's going to end up sandwiched by both her and Soran unintentionally drifting closer to his shoulder.

"You're not criminals."

"I'm pretty sure murder is a crime," he points out. "Coerced murder _probably_ still counts."

Pandora doesn't have words for that, or maybe she's beginning to realize what she's stuck herself with. Five definite murderers, the memories of nineteen dead others and a fucked up handful of Sentinels and whatever the hell crawled out of the mountains. And to think she fought for this, chose this. The victors may have done virtually the same things, but it's not the same.

Not even close.

"I need to pee," Emmi announces, with all the intent of someone who absolutely does not need to use the bathroom and who would rather get away from the conversation instead. His suspicions are confirmed when she takes off before receiving any direction, possible turbulence be 's probably going to take a lap and come back after a few minutes. He'd do the same if he wasn't more concerned by the minute that Soran was going to wake himself up after his head slipped too far down.

"I told her a few days ago that I'm going to keep you safe," Pandora says. "That's still true. I want nothing more than to protect you."

"Do you even know what you're protecting?"

"I know that _he's_ family, whether he likes it or not," she insists. Soran most definitely does not like it, but Icarus doesn't feel the need to point out something that obvious. "You, at least, mean something to him. I know that. The five of you, regardless of your personal feelings, _mean something to each other_. You survived when no one else did. That's practically a fucking miracle."

"Is that what they're going to bill this as?" Tarquin asks. "A miracle?"

His voice says it all - not one of them feels like it was. Not one of them feels like a fucking _miracle_. He feels like he ought to be six feet under, five more graves dug alongside the numerous others that they did or did not dig.

This isn't a miracle. Not for one second.

Pandora hasn't answered, though. She's looking at Soran like he's the only one there. To her, maybe Soran is a miracle. Blood who crawled out from the woodwork when she was so convinced of her life, of her mother and her dead father and one brother, not two.

She might think him a miracle, but he wouldn't call himself that, and if Icarus stopped fighting him then he won't call him that either.

Part of him would, maybe, if it wasn't associated with the fact that he would be constantly reminding himself of Soran's dead body, for those few minutes.

It's not worth the thought.

"I want them to bill it as it is," Pandora says, blinking a few times. "You're alive, and that's all that matters."

There's a kindness in her, a delusion that comes from living the life she did. He lived virtually the same life. Cushioned and held close and protected from everything until they couldn't be anymore, until a loss wormed it's way in and told them that's not how life works. It really did break him, he thinks, in an irreparable sort of way. He's got a crack all the way down his chest and there's no hope of closing it.

Maybe Pandora escaped that. It almost seems like she did, like she recovered before it taught her the lesson.

If she had been taught the lesson, she would know.

That isn't all that matters.

Not even fucking close.

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17**  
 **Applicant #13**

* * *

She wanders for longer than she expected.

It feels good to do so without being in any constant sort of pain. She only returns to her seat when the nagging threat of someone coming to collect her reappears, the driver from before staring at her from down the emergency exit corridor.

When she does, she closes her eyes and buries her head between her knees, blocking out everything and everyone.

She doesn't come back out until they land.

Stepping out onto solid ground again is odd, the snow-capped mountains further off even odder. She hadn't even been in Eight that long, but seeing the Capitol again made it feel that way. You forgot about the way things before when you were out there.

The hovercraft is still partially cloaked, the shield around it shimmering in the sun just about to be eclipsed by the clouds.

There's thunder rumbling in the distance. Rain seems better now than it did before.

The car ride is nothing spectacular. Still darkened windows, but more sleek. Clearly a new Capitol design. The driver is the same, at least for the car she gets in. They split them up, this time - Icarus and Soran take the backseat of one, and she gets in the other without thinking, shoving both Tarquin and Ria in the car by the shoulders before she slides in after them.

The windows are so dark that she can hardly even see anything from the _inside_ , which doesn't seem sensible nor safe, but it's not like anyone's going to listen to her about it. Her opinions on car manufacturing and the safety behind the decisions isn't going anywhere fast.

That may not be, but the cars certainly are. She gets almost no chances to make anything out. Every building they pass is a blur, the occasional park nothing more than a mess of green edged with concrete. Eight's not really all that wild either, but it's not the concrete jungle that the Capitol is. It's all low-lying factories spread out over miles compared to the towering skyscrapers here. It couldn't even compare.

Her house was on the opposite end of the city, closer to the mountains. When she was young her mother liked to hike, but she wasn't so much a fan as she just went along because she had to.

She wishes she had been more willing, now.

Ria is picking at the edge of her shirt but Tarquin is looking around as if he's searching for something, waiting for something to appear. He'd know if it was - their location isn't exactly a secret. All three of them know, at least vaguely, where in the Capitol they are.

His eyes never light up with any sort of recognition, though, so clearly he never finds it.

She really wishes someone would find something.

They're far from the center of the city when the car finally slows, where the trees start to grow a little thicker, where the air is slightly clearer and free from the smog. They don't see anything for nearly a mile or two until the gate that appears at their left-hand side. There's a house in the distance, although that's not the right word. It looks closer to a fortress, at least in size. There's fencing all the way around, over the height of her head and beyond it.

 _Rose Point Estate_ reads the sign by the gate, which begins to swing open when the driver produces some sort of identification and points it toward the camera.

"Isn't this where the Snow's lived?" Tarquin asks quietly.

"Oh, great," she mutters. "This'll end well."

"A few of them, after the Presidency," the driver says. "The ones that were left. It wasn't nearly as large then."

No, probably not. The last of them died not long after the fourth quell, probably poison because it was the predictable thing with them, though no one really knows. The thing that lies here now is a practical behemoth that even the trees can't hide. It could house a hundred people if it wanted, let alone five. It won't even notice their arrival, their staying presence.

It is pretty, though, she can admit that. Nothing close to what she lived in.

Nothing close to what almost everyone lives in, really.

The cars stop at the end of the courtyard, set at the bottom of a staircase that seems far too grand for something that's really just a house. Pandora is out of the car behind them before Emmi even reaches for the door handle.

The sky is darker, now. They probably don't have all that long before it opens up on them.

Emmi sets two feet down on solid ground just in time for the doors to open, things big enough for giants to use, at the top of the staircase. Two men emerge - one she knows as Evander Quinn immediately. His face was on the news several years ago, after all. She'd have to be stupid not to see the resemblance. The other man is unfamiliar, though, quietly lurking behind him like a shadow. His eyes are nervous.

Beyond that. She's not sure what word to use.

"One of us needs to talk to you," Evander calls. "Right now."

It's clear the words are directed to Pandora, who's eyebrows furrow in confusion. So she doesn't know what it's about, then. Evander's eyes linger on Soran for only a second when he steps free from the car before they're reclaimed by whatever pressing matter he's thinking of.

"About what?"

"Not here," he continues. "Not in front of—"

He trails off, but she hears the rest of it anyway. _Not in front of them_. More secrets, already? What can't they know about now?

The other man lurking behind Evander makes a few gestures with his hands - it becomes clear after a few moments that it's sign language, evident in the way that Pandora's eyes widen slightly, still confused.

Oh, this isn't good. This can't possibly be good.

"Okay," Pandora says easily, but the attempt at brushing it off fails. "Alright, Ev, can you watch them? Maybe show them around, where they'll be staying."

"Got it. Go with Crynn."

They need to be watched still? Christ alive, of course they do. Pandora abandons them almost immediately, up and over the stairs before she can hardly blink and disappearing into the house after probably-Crynn before she can even think to ask the question. _What the hell is going on?_

Evander looks worried. She couldn't tell, standing all the way down here, but when he gets close she can see it swimming in his eyes. Worried, and scared.

Scared of what?

It can't be of them. He's had all this time to prepare, all this time to learn the things they did.

But if it's not them, then what is it?

* * *

 **Pandora Quinn, 29**  
 **Member of the New Haven Federation**

* * *

"What the hell is going on?" she hisses, but Crynn doesn't stop his progress down the hall. He doesn't even turn around. "What about their families—"

He grabs her around the forearm and drags her off, sharply. Crynn doesn't do anything _sharply_. He wedges open the door as soon as they turn the corner and pulls her into the study after him, flicking the light at the door. It's still dark like everything else in the house, but it's enough to make out his face and the worried crease of his brow, the upset downturn to the corners of his mouth.

"What?" she asks. "Tell me."

He puts both hands on her shoulders and squeezes. That feels more like him. Warmer, gentler.

It means _breathe_ without any words being spoken.

What does she have to breathe for?

Shes does take one, fully. "Okay. Tell me."

His eyes are wavering, shiny like he's about to tell her something awful, and oh God what if he is? She's never been good at handling bad news, and she's dealt with her fair share of it. She's never gotten any better.

He lets go of her shoulders. "You know we had... teams, watching their families," he signs.

"Yes?"

"The one in Eight was late to start, and Emmi's father didn't show up for work. They sent someone from the office he works at to check on him and he was dead. Like he—"

"Wait, what?" she interrupts. "What are you talking about? He's not—"

"He's dead," Crynn repeats, signing the words again. "Murdered, by the looks of it. Strangled, or... garroted, is what they're saying. It's all over the news. It got out before we could stop it."

"No," she insists. "No, that's not— that's not possible? How is that possible? What am I supposed to do, how do I tell her that?"

"Hold on," he signs, and then holds a hand out to lean against the door before she can reach for the handle. Just outside it she hears the chatter go by, the group headed deeper into the building, led on by Evander. Away from all of this, but not far enough. There's no way in hell there's any running from this.

"Don't," she says quietly.

"It's not just them."

"Don't," she snaps. If he doesn't do anything sharply she certainly doesn't snap at him, hasn't since the day she met him. She feels like she's lost that right to anyone that doesn't have a tongue.

"I don't know what you want me to tell you," he signs. "The team in Three found them both five minutes after we sent the word out to check-in. Both in the basement, both killed the same way. Evander went with both teams here _himself_ because we didn't believe it. We would've sent someone to One if Soran had anyone there, but we've checked for the other four and they're all... they're all gone. All of their parents."

She doesn't realize she's crying until Crynn reaches out to swipe away some of the tears that have begun to streak down her face, but by then it's pointless. She might as well just dunk her head into a bucket and call it a day.

"You can't be serious," she manages, even though he is. He wouldn't do something like this to her if he wasn't.

And it really is to her - it's _on_ her.

"How is this happening?" she cries. "We kept it on lockdown, no one knew it was the five of them."

Did something get leaked, somehow, or was this the plan all along? Did someone they've known all along do this to them? Are they still doing it right now, pulling the strings and laughing at them while they do it?

It's what she's known all along - someone did something more than they thought possible.

"I have to tell them. How am I supposed to tell them?"

Crynn shakes his head. He looks as sad as she knows she does, distraught in a way that's hard to put into words. You'd think with everything he'd been through he'd be less sensitive to things like this, but it only seems to have made it worse.

"I have to tell them," she repeats, and reaches for the door. Crynn's hand falls away but he's close on her heels when she steps out into the hallway, turning in the direction the chattering went. They're gone, now, but they can't be far. Evander could only lead them so far away, especially if he knows. If he _saw it_ , both of the Devereux's and the Vierra's...

She's nearly sick thinking about it.

She's still crying by the time she catches up to them, all the way up on the second floor and headed down the east wing, towards all of their bedrooms.

They place where she thought they'd be safe from everything that could possibly hurt them.

It seems ironic, really, but Soran's the first one to notice her intrusive arrival. He looks over his shoulder and catches her eye, making it seem like the first real time he's ever done it. Maybe it is. He's the only one she's not going to shatter right now because her parents already made sure of that years ago, like they broke him in anticipation of all of this.

She thinks it again, sees Crynn's hands forming the word in her head. _Breathe._

She takes one last, huge breath. "I need to talk to you all."

* * *

Sign language is a decent part of the conversation from here on out, for various reasons. For reference it's going to be written like any other old language or conversation because... it is. That's literally what it is, so there's no point in making it seem otherwise.

And yeah, don't kill me. We totally don't need any more death right now. Totally necessary part of the story right here. Maybe.

Until next time.


	44. Sellouts

XLI: The Capitol - Rose Point Estate.

* * *

 **PART II: THE RAPTURE**

* * *

 _You're fascinated with the old me,_  
 _and I bet you hate it when we don't scream._  
 _You're stuck in the past and I'm not looking back._

 _I didn't do it just to make you happy._  
 _I do it for the ones still clapping._  
 _You're stuck on the fence and I'm over it._

 _It's easy from the outside, you're fighting to get in._  
 _It's not all gold and glory, I gave my life for this._  
 _They never fail to judge me, no matter who I am,_

 _I can't change my story,_  
 _but I'll do the best I can._

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17**  
 **Applicant #13**

* * *

In the simplest terms she can manage, everything inside her shuts down.

Her body goes off first. She takes a few steps down the hall and sits down in one of the lone reading chairs in the corner with a _thump_ and doesn't move after that. Her brain, much to her dismay, powers off slower. All the while she mentally wills it along, envisions each switch and button. _Off, off, off._

He's dead. Her father is dead.

Pandora's crying. There's other crying, too, that may be Ria or Tarquin or Icarus or all three - she can't fucking see to tell. Her eyes are burning but nothing will come out.

He's fucking _dead._ She's alive and he didn't know. He died before he found out.

There's someone to blame for that, she knows, but it doesn't come to mind as something overwhelmingly important. That bit is reserved for the word _murdered_. Someone went there with the intent to kill them, and maybe if it was just him that could be marked down as a coincidence. Those things happen, sometimes. Once in a while.

Not this time.

She looks up. Ria is gone. A vague working-type looking person sees the group of them and flees back in the opposite direction. The man she does not entirely know just yet is consoling... Pandora?

For christ's sake.

Soran is trying to ask questions. She can tell even though she's waiting for her ears to pop so she can hear properly again, like she's been underwater for too long. It doesn't look like he's getting very far anyway. Pandora is in hysterics. Whatever he's asking isn't being answered quick enough by Evander, who's head looks as if it's about to explode.

Hers feels like it already is.

Tarquin kind of stumbles off. No one makes any move to stop him. Icarus looks at her; she imagines they look much the same. The shock fit before the emotion, an overwhelming tidal wave of icy cold paralysis that shut her down before the weight of it could make her collapse. To be honest, she's surprised he's still standing, but there's no where else to go. The floor, maybe.

"How have you not found any fucking evidence?" Soran snaps. "You're telling me seven fucking people got _murdered_ overnight and you have not the faintest inkling as to—"

"We've had investigators on every scene since we found out," Evander breaks in. "Forensics is on it. If there's anything to find they'll get it."

Seven people got murdered overnight. Her father was one of them.

"You thought we were safe," she says hoarsely, and everyone turns to look at her, for the first time. "You thought, and we knew it wasn't true, and you wouldn't listen to us. Someone's still plotting."

"I know," Pandora chokes. "I know, I just don't know why. I don't know what someone is getting out of this anymore."

"A win," Soran snaps. "They're _winning_ , isn't it obvious? Us surviving was not in their fucking cards, whoever set this all up. They had a group of Sentinels after us who never planned on having a victor in the first place, you think they're happy that five of us made it out?"

Evander is looking at him the way you'd look at someone who's about to lobotomize you, she reckons. It's not the greatest brother to brother meeting she's ever seen in her life; she's not even sure they've been properly introduced. Then again it's not like she had a benchmark for these types of things, and there's probably not many people you do. And she thought the Pandora first look was tragic.

"As soon as we have any kind of information the pieces will start to come together," Evander says, and it's not a promise in words but it sounds like one.

She's not sure she really believes in those anymore.

Besides, she already has too many pieces. He died alone, strangled. Probably didn't even see it coming but had a few terrifying, too long seconds in which his reactions did nothing at all. Was he scared, really? Did he embrace it the way her mother did when she knew there was no other option, looking at it as if he was joining the two of them?

Did he have time to think at all?

"We need to find out," she says. "They're not gonna stop. They didn't do this and just decide they're done."

It looks as if Icarus considers that two seconds before he turns around himself and continues on down the hall they have yet to explore. Soran looks after him, but he's got no hope of hell in catching him in his current state, and then to her. They're the only two left. Her because she's not sure she has it in her to move anymore and him because he lost it all long ago.

Maybe being untouchable now is a good thing. They can't take anything from you if it's already gone.

"You don't have to do anything," Evander says, and his voice is an entire magnitude softer when he looks at her. She feels like a child, which is a hard thing to be anymore, or an abused animal, the type that doesn't trust anyone no matter how long the person gives. "I don't want you to feel like this is all on you. We can figure this out."

He's freaked out too. Not as much as her, the rest of them. No, that would be impossible. He's a physically impressive person, in the least; the hearing aids she notices tucked in both his ears don't even begin to take away from that, but there's something overwhelmingly gentle about him that she absolutely does not fucking understand.

Being gentle is bad. Being gentle gets you killed, really.

"I don't think you get to say anything," Soran insists. If she's the scared, abused animal he's the reason why signs get put on front doors, why people don't knock when they realize there's a dog with a mouth full of teeth inside. "If you had just let them go home—"

"I wish it was that simple."

"Then make it that fucking simple!"

 _Them_ , not _us_. Soran doesn't really have a home. She's aware of that now.

She wishes she could raise the same amount of anger that's registering in him now; her body feels too heavy to do so, too weighed down. It's the same weight that settled on her when she woke at the bottom of the cliff and realized what lied ahead of her.

She survived that, though.

It doesn't feel so much the same, anymore.

* * *

 **Tarquin Vierra, 16  
Applicant #4**

* * *

They're still yelling.

He's still crying.

It feels like a wheel that never stops turning. It also feels like someone's turning the crank too fast on it and he's getting tossed around, whiplash inevitable, worse injury probable.

Arden had done that to him once, two summers ago. Put him on a ride down at the mid-July fair they always held down by the lake and made him go three times around it without stopping. He had gotten off and nearly thrown up in the grass.

That, in comparison, feels like a real sort of child's play. They're in the thick of it now.

He can't breathe, a feeling he thought he had gotten used to. The air was thick down in the mines, stale, worse when he set fire to a large chunk of them and spent hours upon hours struggling through to find a new exit. They had taken special measures in the hospital to monitor the state of his lungs, but he wasn't the one who had a hole in the right one, so it hadn't seemed like a big deal.

It feels like a big deal now, because he's not so sure any of the doctors really fixed them at all.

There's a doctor on sight, they said. He has half a mind to go looking for whoever it is and make them fix him properly this time. It feels like he's splitting apart at the seams.

They didn't say anything about anyone else. What if _Arden_ is dead, Velia or Calix too? His distant aunts and uncles, his other friends from the troupe - is it all of them? Or just his parents, designed to hurt the most, due to wedge it's way into his heart in a way that makes it stuck for good. A truly wrong part of him wants to find a broadcast. The other part wants to get lost in this maze of a place and never let anyone else find him.

He hears the sobbing before he gets very far. Ria went this way, too, and he suspected she didn't get very far but this is just around the corner, hidden behind a closed door. He closes a hand around the handle but stops before he can get it open. She ran for a _reason_ , went away from them all to get away for good. She's the complete opposite of him; not entirely unemotional but much better at hiding it. It could just come from not talking very much in the first place, but he's been passed that point since he learned how to talk in the first place.

"Ria?" he asks. His voice is a pathetic croak, but he thinks it gets the point across. There's a pause in the hysterics, briefly.

He cracks the door open before he chickens out. She's sitting at the edge of the bed, one hand pressed to her stomach and the other lifted away from her face, two actions he immediately understands. Trying to keep everything in. Trying to hide it.

Failing miserably, too.

She looks at him for all of two seconds before she's sobbing again, face buried in the safety of her hand, but it's a smidgen quieter. He probably wouldn't hear it anymore if he was standing out in the hall, but it's loud as day when he sits down gingerly next to her.

This is one of the many rooms Evander pointed out when he was giving them the choice of where to stay. It was unintentional he's sure, but he's pretty sure this is Ria choosing.

"I just wanted to go home," she says, muffled into her hand. Home that doesn't exist anymore, really. Now they're just buildings like any other, not even filled with the stench of death because they found the bodies too quick.

Was it one person, traveling overnight? Was it multiple listening to one order? Who went first? Who lasted the longest?

He has a million questions in his mind, a million thought processes that don't ever finish.

While he was trying to sleep in his hospital bed both of his parents were being murdered, none the wiser as to what was going on some several hundred miles away.

And now they never will. They died thinking him dead too, mourning their only child, the one they sent off for only a few days. He can only hope in the very least that it was quick, a few seconds of pain before they went under. He can hope that they didn't know what was happening, didn't see it happening to the other before it happened to them too.

He can see it in his mind, one of them helpless a few steps away, watching the other die.

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree if that's the case.

It doesn't seem right that they're still alive anymore. There's no sense to it. All that work he did to get out, to find the others... why did he even fucking bother?

"We should've just died," he says, voice a hollow rendition of what it used to be. His dad said he had such a good one too, a commanding stage presence, a voice worthy of listening to.

It doesn't really matter what his dad used to say.

Ria peers up at him, eyes peeking over the top of her hand, a slight concern for something other than her own situation floating in her watery eyes. It's not the greatest thing to say, he's aware of that. Not the most reassuring, either, and Ria doesn't need to be worrying about him on top of everything else.

"I really wanted to live," she says.

"Me too."

He's also wanted a hug for a few long, agonizing days at this point. Since he hugged her in the mountains, really. Nobody else really seems appropriate to hug - decidedly not the _hugging type_ or anything of the sort. Even Ria only did it at that time because she was half out of her mind, too thick in the delirium to really do anything other than cling back to him.

He hesitates a second before he scoots closer those last few inches and wraps an arm around her shoulders. She curls towards his side, bringing her knees up to make herself even smaller. For someone her size that shouldn't even be possible. It works, though, and she slots in under his arm easily. It's not even close to a hug, but it's not bad for two people who are shaking and crying too much to do anything else.

"At least they found them," she says thickly. "At least..."

"At least what?"

She shrugs. His arm shifts upwards at the motion and then resettles even tighter over her shoulders.

There's more to that, he can tell. Something he doesn't know about. They found them, they have the bodies, but even then it doesn't matter. They'll never see them. They won't see them buried, either.

Being found used to be such a good thing, a miracle as Pandora would call it. Since the border patrol picked them up it's felt like the opposite, everything tilted on it's head until backwards makes sense.

It also used to be that _alive_ was the good thing, too, not dead. You're a fighter, a survivor, a _victor_ in this world.

And he doesn't feel like a single one of those things.

* * *

 **Soran Faeber, 19  
Applicant #8**

* * *

"You don't have to follow me around," he snaps, to someone who either doesn't want to talk to him or can't.

Crynn's shadowing him like he's planning on taking it up as his next hobby. Pandora tried to come along. Evander stopped her.

He doesn't even know who this guy is.

He's not like Evander - Crynn can damn well hear every word that's coming out of his mouth without assistance and is just actively ignoring him. He's been staying a few feet behind him, stopping when he does, picking up the pace when he tries to get away no matter how futile it is.

It's like he has a flashing red light over top of his head that says _fuck off_. And if not, he really wants one.

"You know, if you're going to be _generally here_ you could at least help me find him. Search and destroy instead of watching me like a goddamn hawk."

Crynn doesn't respond to that either, absolute shocker. What he does do is grab Soran's arm just above the elbow and pull him to a stop, doing so in one of the only ways that wouldn't cause any flare of pain to rise up. While he appreciates that, it's really hard to appreciate being stopped in the first place.

"What?" he asks, beyond vexed at this point. Crynn holds up his hands in a placating sort of way and then goes rooting around in his pocket until he pulls something free, slightly bigger than a phone. He types something out and then turns it around until Soran can see it.

 _Don't know where he went._

"Great," he says flatly. "So are we just going to stand here, then?"

Crynn doesn't miss a beat in scrolling down to the next line. _You need to be resting. Not running around looking for him._

"Oh, God," he groans. "She's already been on my case about that, I don't need you doing it too. Just look at me, marathon sprinter - dude, I'm managing a rough half a mile an hour right now, do you think I _enjoy_ walking around?"

He really doesn't. It hurts tremendously to do anything other than sit and even that doesn't always feel so great. But he can't just go and sit down, sleep and ignore it. Tarquin and Ria are off wallowing together, at least, and Emmi looked him dead in the eye and said go, which was her equivalent of _fuck off and don't ask me how I am_ , so he wasn't about to.

But Icarus, in a stunning twist of fate, is missing in action. Things haven't always gone so well when that's happened in the past.

He just needs to find him, preferably quickly. And Crynn's not helping much.

Crynn makes a noise, weirder than most other things he's heard, and types out something out. Soran counts down the remaining seconds he has until he really does try running off.

 _The hallway goes on for a while, and into the east wing. It's a lot of rooms. There's an emergency exit staircase at the very end, but it would've made noise if he had left. So_ —

Soran doesn't bother reading the rest of it. "So he's still up here. Got it. Thanks."

He backtracks a bit first, leaving Crynn standing there erasing the last of his message, and starts opening doors. No one in their right mind needs this many rooms in a house. You could probably comfortably fit the entire population of Twelve in here and still have room at the dining table for guests. How the Quinn family and their immediate relatives even see each other every century is a miracle in this place.

Not one of the rooms looks the same, though. There are a lot of bedrooms but most, if not all, are laid out different, filled with different colors and pieces of furniture. There's a few sitting rooms scattered between them, a behemoth of a room that looks suspiciously like an entire library. There's one that's just filled with musical instruments and expensive looking paintings, another where the outside walls and half the ceiling are glass, showing the rapidly darkening sky.

All of these rooms and not one thing looks recently touched, though everything is suspiciously free from dust. He remembers Evander saying the south wing was dedicated to the workers, which means there's an entire armada of people that both live and work here to keep the place up.

God fucking dammit, he really doesn't want to be here.

It takes him nearly a half hour of poking through room after room before he finally finds one with any indication of disturbance, a faint light peeking through a door all the way on the other side of the otherwise dark room. A bathroom, probably. He's only found half a dozen of them otherwise in his searching.

He looks back; Crynn is nowhere in sight, anymore. He slips carefully into the room and shuts the door soundlessly behind him.

Upon further inspection as he enters the room there's one other sign, too, an open cabinet door in the dresser-shaped thing leaning against the wall to his left. He can hazard a solid guess as to what's in there, or at least what used to be considering it's been left open, on the way to the light. He doesn't bother looking, though. He's going to find out right now.

He inches the door open and leans against the frame. "Trust you to be able to find the liquor in a goddamn mansion."

Icarus doesn't so much as look up at him as he raises the bottle and waves it back and forth. There's already enough missing that nothing spills out from the open top. He's sitting up against the wall, legs crossed. Soran can't decide if him not crying is a good thing or not.

"Call it a talent," Icarus muses, and then takes another small sip of it.

"I'm gonna hazard a guess and call you a lightweight."

"Fucking rude," he answers, which means it's true. That makes it all the more concerning with how much is gone. He's about to go downhill fast, if he isn't already.

He probably is.

Soran can count on one hand the amount of times he's ever drank anything in his life, every time some god awful brand of something someone had mixed up in their room and then smuggled out to everyone else. Turns out making moonshine isn't a talent of the Ones - who would've thought? His alcohol knowledge is brief, at best. It's not like he ever had the money for it.

He reaches for the bottle and takes a swig for himself. It tastes, predictably, like shit.

"You shouldn't be drinking while you're on meds," Icarus points out, voice half a mumble, which is true but also boring.

"It tastes like garbage anyway."

"It's a thousand dollars, easy."

"Thousand dollars worth of garbage."

Icarus stretches a hand out, waving it around like he wants it back. Soran grabs the lid off the counter and caps it, for which he earns a very unimpressed, more than slightly on the way to drunk look. He expects something else to happen, for Icarus to move or put some effort into getting it back, but he lets his hands drop back into his lap, silent.

"You wanna get up?"

"Nope."

Well, that means he's getting down, then. That's going to be horrifically painful. He grabs the edge of the counter anyway and very slowly lowers himself down until he's settled down on his knees, ignoring the fiery pain that erupts all over his side for his troubles. Icarus mental state must be a wonder for him not to react to that considering how much he's been hovering since he woke up in the first place.

He's staring at the opposite wall right now, eyes glassy. Not really looking.

"I hated them, you know," he says weakly. "They were awful parents."

"So I assumed."

"Like, I guess I shouldn't say the worst, you know? It's not like they beat the shit out of me or anything they just... didn't care. I was never anything to them. Maybe I was, but it felt that way."

It really goes to show that money can do absolutely nothing for you if you really let it. And it doesn't matter that they never put a hand on him - sometimes the psychological damage is worse. He doesn't know what's more terrible - having parents that aren't exactly the word itself, or not really having them at all. And it's not like it matters, anyway. The paths for both of them led here anyway.

He's just not suffering for it now, which seems cruel when everyone else is.

"I hated them," Icarus repeats, but his voice is thicker, eyes more watery. Oh, it's definitely happening, the downward slope beginning even quicker than he thought. "I hated them, so I don't know why I'm—"

He breaks off to take a breath, shuddering on the inhale. His knuckles are white where they're digging into his knees, a few seconds passing before several tears finally slip over the edge.

"They were still your parents," he says quietly, and Icarus nods, which seems to open up the fucking floodgates if he ever did see it. For once, though, Icarus is oddly silent, openly sobbing without making any noise to really show it. An occasional sniffle here and there, a breath in and out. Besides that, nothing. It's almost more alarming than him sobbing in the first place.

It's not, though. Soran has never had a clue what to do when people start crying in front of him, though it's not like he's the pinnacle of experience. A few people here and there in training, although no one he was that close to. It wasn't his thing to fix when it wasn't someone he cared about.

And Icarus...

He's not prepared to even finish that thought.

He holds onto the counter for support again while he gets his legs out from underneath him, maneuvering about until he's sitting properly on the floor in front of him, just to the left. There's no way this is ever going to feel great, and he's going to pay for it whenever he gets off this damn floor.

That time probably isn't coming anytime soon.

He holds out his arms and Icarus doesn't hesitate a second before he's leaning into them, still sobbing, shaking, trying to process something that won't ever make any sense. He lets go of his own stomach to wrap his arms around Soran, instead, once he realizes he has that option. Soran could've predicted aloud that he was a clinger the day he met him.

At least he's right about something.

It hurts like hell, though, Icarus' arms keeping a constant gnawing pressure on his side whenever he so much as shifts his weight. It's not like he can very well say anything, can he? Icarus doesn't mean it. He's not thinking of anything right now; he's in hysterics, halfway drunk, crying on the bathroom floor in Soran's arms and _God_ , how the fuck did they end up here?

The whole path doesn't make sense. Doesn't need to.

All that matters is the here and now, and it's like he said - they're not getting off this floor anytime soon.

Soran leans back against the counter and ignores the blistering pain, tightening his arms around Icarus' quivering form. It feels a lot like he's keeping him in one piece, and hopefully he can.

It's going to be a long fucking night.

It'll be even longer if he can't.

* * *

 **Evander Quinn, 26  
Volunteer Support Service Personnel; Army Branch**

* * *

It's a few long, painful hours before he gets to do what he's wanted to all night.

First he has to herd Pandora off, which is a process in itself. After that he tracks down Crynn, who managed to lose Soran at a rather impressive pace, and sends him after her.

Emmi is still sitting silent in the hall when he goes by for the third time in his quest to find the others. She's the only one there, so he makes sure to pick her a room. He told her to try and sleep - she probably ignored him on that front, if she even heard him in the first place, but at least he knows she can sleep, if she decides she wants to.

By the time he finishes all of that there's not a peep he can make out in the entire house except for someone working away in the kitchens, no doubt prepping for tomorrow's breakfast.

After that, he heads for the third floor.

He remembers when he was little, when it was off limits while his parents were working away. One of the nannies would always catch him no matter how many times, no matter how far he made it. One step from the bottom or only one from the top, they always managed to pull him away and distract him with something else. They got quite good at it with all the time they spent around him.

It still feels weird stepping foot up here even after all these years, like it's off limits even though he's an adult.

He knows he's not going to find her anywhere else, though. By the looks of things she's been holed up here all day.

Every year he wonders more and more about the hidden cowardice inside each of his parents.

He heads to the end of the hall and knocks twice before he steps inside. The fireplace in the corner is recently stalked, a few new flames catching here and there. He can't see her, but she's awake.

"Mom?" he calls, but he gets no response. The massive wall projection is on across the room, replaying the broadcasts of the day. It's exactly as he expected - grainy footage of the various houses, the emergency vehicles that had collected the bodies. No conclusive evidence, they all said at one point or another, of who had done it or what had happened or why it was their parents, specifically.

Everyone in this house knows why. It still doesn't make sense even though he knows.

"Sweetheart?" comes the voice, and his mother steps from the bathroom wiping away the last of the water from her hands onto the front of her robe. "I didn't think you'd be up this late."

He's not even sure what time it is, if he's being honest. It must be past midnight.

That doesn't explain why she's still up, though.

"Busy day," he replies. She's still alert, moving quite fast, but sits down in the chair that's just always been _hers_ a few feet away from the fireplace. They got rid of his dad's a few months after he died. He's not sure why.

"So I would assume."

"Have you been up here all day?"

She takes a sip of her coffee, tea, something - coffee if she's still up, he reckons. "I didn't want to get in the way."

"You don't have to bullshit me, you know," he says. "But you can't avoid it forever."

Oh, but she'll try. They got all of their stubbornness from her, him and Pandora both. They got most of their personalities from her if he had to hazard a guess. He doesn't enjoy that fact as much as people would assume.

"I'm not," she answers, and smiles at him. She looks worse than usual, tired. Not in the anxious, worried way that he was, losing sleep wondering about all of this. No, his mother's just angry, and hiding it. If he didn't know her like he does he wouldn't be able to see it, but people didn't spend half his life calling him a mama's boy for no reason.

"You sister shouldn't have offered this," she continues. "There were other places for them to go."

"He's my _brother_."

"In theory. You don't actually know him."

"And who's fault is that?" he fires back. "You and Dad had him sent away and you spent all the years after he died _continuing_ to hide it, and for what? I would have never known if this didn't happen. You really think Pandora would've sent him away - you think she would have sent _any_ of them away?"

"I didn't want him here. Any of them. It's too risky."

"Do you think they want to be here?" he asks. "Do you think Soran, if given the choice, would've asked to be born?"

"Your father wasn't opposed to the idea, you know. The plan was always to get rid of his mother one way or another, but he had a family lined up for adoption in the city. Keep him here, but keep him far enough away."

"And you said no."

She takes another sip before she turns to look at him. It's not all that far off from the look she would give him when he was younger, when he had done something accidentally but was about to get into massive trouble for it anyway. She can't keep him locked up in his room now, though, can't keep dessert away from him or keep his friends from coming over.

She doesn't have any leverage now.

"You said no," he repeats. "Don't lie to me."

"I said this family was what mattered."

"He _is_ my family," he points out. "And he nearly died because Dad harbored a Sentinel that killed him and then almost killed Soran nine years later. He nearly died because you had him sent off."

He can't remember the last time he saw his mother display any great sign of emotion, and it's slightly terrifying. There are re-broadcasts of the murder of seven different people just in front of her and she doesn't seem to care.

"He nearly died," she says slowly. "Because he went along with it. All five of them did. There are nineteen other kids dead because of them, and we're giving them sanctuary."

"The Sentinels did this."

"The Sentinels who are _dead_. Who else is there to blame? You're more naive than I thought if you still think of them as just children, not after what they've done."

It's well and truly done then, isn't it? He has no idea who she is anymore. Even when Dad was still here she was always the colder of the two, but he remembers her hugs like he's gotten one recently, even though he hasn't. She was so warm with them, so kind-hearted. She was everything she's not being now.

Regardless of what she says, they're children. He still believes that.

"Remember when I was in the hospital?" he asks. "Remember that? You made Pandora leave and you told me that nothing had changed, that even though it was no one's fault you would still protect me and love me and that you were going to fix it. What happened to that?"

She turns her eyes back to the projection. Evander has never been more grateful in his life that he looks nothing like her - even after everything he did, everything he failed to do, he'd still rather look like his father than whoever this is sitting in front of him now. She's a stranger, a foreign being, a shell of a mother who pretends and carries on charades about how much she cares. Maybe her caring went away when Dad did.

Maybe it was never really there and he just failed to notice.

He gets no response, either, just a thick, heavy silence hanging between them, broken occasionally by the hum of the projection.

"Maybe you were right," he says. "It is best to stay up here. Don't go near them - _any_ of them."

He'd get a scolding for that tone of voice if it was a different time, if he was a different person. This time he turns to leave before she can possibly respond and is out the door before she even realizes he's walking away.

It's better that way. A cleaner break. An easier separation.

That doesn't stop it from hurting, though.

She's not dead, but it feels a lot like he's lost another parent, too.

* * *

Yes I went and renamed the bloodbath as 'part one' after the fact so that no one would notice. And what about it?

Happy November/almost winter fun times to everyone! Hope you're all having lovely days thus far.

Until next time.


	45. Dangerous Territory

XLII: The Capitol - Rose Point Estate.

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17  
Applicant #10**

* * *

His body is almost entirely numb when he wakes.

His eyes are also conveniently glued shut, unlikely, or just so thoroughly crusted over that he can't exactly open them. There's a pounding in his head, nausea turning over in his stomach but not enough to get him to move. It feels like he's eaten through six mouthfuls of cotton and then conveniently forgotten to wash them down, which probably wasn't smart.

You know, if he _had_ actually eaten cotton.

He doesn't remember much and it's hard to get any further in the mush that is his brain to figure it out - all he knows is that unless something very strange happened last night in the space that he doesn't remember, he's asleep on Soran, sort of, and has no plans to move in the immediate future.

He's too warm to be properly comfortable, and there's something digging into his legs, but exhaustion is weighing so heavily on his body that he couldn't be fucked to move even if you've paid him.

Money used to work in the past. Not so much anymore.

Soran's moving, sort of, just occasional shifts that aren't really enough to disturb him, unless they're what woke him up in the first place. He certainly feels tired enough to go back to sleep, so something must have. There's only one distinct thing he can feel above all else, a hand centered in the middle of his spine, fingers occasionally moving back and forth.

"What time is it?" he mumbles, trying to turn a bit to bring some life back into the rest of his body. It doesn't do much.

"Early morning, looks like. Sun's coming up."

Icarus can't see; his eyes won't open, and they're mashed into the crook of Soran's shoulder anyway. He really doesn't want to move. He feels boneless, almost like he doesn't have to. There's no point to it.

"Did you sleep?"

"Sure didn't."

"Why not?"

"It's pretty fucking impossible when you feel the way I do right now, turns out."

He sits up so suddenly that he can practically feel himself tilting about uneasily, and when he cracks opens his eyes everything is a blur, most of all Soran sitting in front of him. What he can tell, vision or not, is that he looks to be in visible pain, and that's probably because Icarus just spent the past however many hours using him as a personal pillow, crying on him and then falling sleeping nearly on top of him.

"God," he manages. "Why did you just let me stay there, then? You're already in enough pain as is."

"Even in sleep you were really determined not to be moved," Soran says, which isn't entirely surprising. Once he's got a hold he's not usually the type to let go without good reason.

But this is a pretty good reason if there ever was one.

He hauls himself to his feet and very nearly throws up at how badly everything spins, then, grabbing onto the counter to keep himself upright.

Soran rolls his head back until it's leaning against the cupboard, eyes narrowed. "Trashed?"

"Feels like it." He presses a hand to his temple but the throbbing only increases tenfold. He should never drink anything, ever. Anyone who even vaguely knows him should lock the liquor up in ways that will never allow him any access to it.

He can still barely see, his arms coming to life with pins and needles, but he leans back down to fit his arms under Soran's, pulling him to his feet with painstaking slowness, inch by inch. He can see the pain all over his face, feel it in the rigidness of his forearms, and watches it when he finally pulls him to his feet, unsteady as they both are.

"You good?"

"Just give me a minute."

Longer than that, by the looks of it. Soran is still looking to the ground, shifting from foot to foot in an attempt to ease some of the pain. His left hand opens and closes repeatedly, brushing against Icarus' arm with every pass.

He eyes it. "Feel any different?"

"Not really, but then again nothing right now feels great."

His doing - his _fault._ Is there anything he can't fuck up at this point? All he can do now is hold onto him like he did all throughout the night, but now at least he's trying to help. It's leagues better than really focusing on last night, on everything attempting to flood back in. The mess of emotions, the confusion, the pain.

"You should go to sleep," Soran says some few minutes later, finally looking up. His eyes aren't so foggy anymore.

"So should you."

"I need to do something first."

"What?"

"Nothing that you need to worry about. Just go to sleep."

He wants to ask, probably should. He's also not in the mood to get into it right now, and knowing the both of them - sleep-deprived, slightly numb, in a general state of terrible, that's what will happen if he pushes. There's enough shit going on in the world right now, and Soran's become a c _onstant_ in it, a weird, abnormal thing to rely on.

Soran looks up at him, too. "It's fine. Don't worry about it. I'll come back, if you want me to, just—"

"I do, yeah," he says quietly, without missing a beat. They've been in plenty of dangerous territories but this feels like a different kind. He doesn't just want him to come back - he _needs_ him to, he thinks, like a constant should.

There's something different in Soran's eyes, too, a question without an answer. Icarus would give him one if he had it.

He nods, short and sharp. Finally something that doesn't look like it hurts. "I won't be long."

He lets go but not before Icarus gets one last hold on him, a looser embrace this time. He wraps his arms around him, allowing himself only one little squeeze lower down where he knows not so much pain lies. It's easier in this position. Everything goes dark when he buries his face back in Soran's shoulder for just a second, and in the dark there's nothing overwhelming. It's just simple.

"Thank you," he whispers. He's still falling apart, he suspects, but it's slower than it would be without him.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

When he lets go it's not easy. Soran ambles out of the room in a sleepless stupor, one hand pressed to his side as if he's warding off pain that hasn't even blossomed yet. Icarus turns to grab the curtains to the wide bay window looking out over the back of the property. He gets a good look before he pulls them shut - miles of perfectly manicured grass and towering trees further back, a massive expanse of gardens and twisting stone pathways even closer. It's beautiful, he'll say that much. He also doesn't have the energy required for beautiful right now.

With the curtains shut the room gets taken back by the darkness, and it really is easier. There are clothes around here certainly, something to change into. Pandora even said so.

He's so drained, though, that he doesn't even care. His face is tender to the touch, swollen from all the crying, and his head hurts bad enough that all he wants to do is lay here for the next twelve hours and forget everything that's happened. He pulls all the blankets back and crawls in, tugging them right back up and nearly over his head before he's content.

It won't take long, he knows. It's too dark to fight it.

And that's a good thing, right about now.

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16  
Applicant #17**

* * *

Neither of them sleep a wink.

She knows this because she spends most of her time cocooned under the blankets, silently hoping they'll smother her if she stops paying attention. The other one percent she spends peeking out from them at Tarquin to see if he's gone under, but every time she checks he's in the same position on the same chaise lounge in the corner of the room, staring emptily at the ceiling.

And neither of them say a word about it, either.

When she finally meanders her way into the bathroom just after six she doesn't even bother flicking the light on - she can see the horror that is her face even without it, and presses her fingers to the puffiness under her eyes, willing it to go away.

It doesn't, but she didn't really expect it to.

Tarquin is folding the blanket back over the end of the chaise when she gets back, although it's not like he really used it. Even the bed looks hardly disturbed, just a few faint wrinkles where she was laying and nothing else among them.

Tarquin looks at her. She stares back.

"Breakfast?" he asks eventually, so off they go.

Neither of them really know where to go - no one gave them any explicit instructions. Evander no doubt would have taken the time, or Pandora herself, if yesterday hadn't gone the way it did.

She won't lie about the pit of her stomach being empty, but it's not with hunger. She's not even sure if she can eat right now with how sick she feels, but it looks like it's given Tarquin some ounce of purpose in their otherwise very devoid of anything days. In an odd twist of fate she doesn't really want to be alone right now, either, so even if they're silent following him around in the search of food seems better than sitting in her room by herself.

Or his room. She's not sure which of theirs it is, but they'll probably find out soon.

They both look terrible. It's evident in the eyes of the few people they pass, all workers by the looks of it. Tarquin eventually stops one to get directions to any sort of food and she directs them with a nervous little gesture before she skitters off even quicker than she appears. Downstairs they head, down stairs three times as wide as she is tall, and then around the corner, through a dining room the size of her entire house.

The kitchen, when they finally find the door tucked away into a corner of the hall, is silent except for the occasional clang of a pot and pan, the smooth sound of running water. There's someone whistling too, a faint tune that she can't put her finger on. Familiar, but not enough.

The man they finally come across looks pretty official, white chef's coat and all. Their presence becomes an alert almost immediately; he turns around still mixing away at something without blinking an eye.

"Oh, I didn't think I would get anymore of you up this early!" he says. "If you'd just give me a minute..."

He trails off and takes the bowl with him, grabbing two plates off of a shelf much too high for her to reach. Every movement seems confident, calculated in an easy-going, experienced sort of way. He knows what he's doing and on top of it doesn't care that they're lurking about watching him.

"He really took that in stride," she murmurs.

"Nice change."

It is, she'll admit it. He's already piling things onto both plates, heaps of browned potatoes and eggs interspersed with various vegetables, links of sausage and crispy bacon. She wasn't hungry before, but things have definitely changed.

"Anything in particular I can get you to drink?" he asks without looking over his shoulder. "I've got orange juice, apple juice, pomegranate, grapefruit - or a smoothie, perhaps?"

"Orange juice is good," Tarquin offers, and she murmurs her agreement. She'd be good with all of the above, really, but the taste of anything besides water right now is practically heaven. She watches him pour orange juice into two rounded glasses while finishing off the plates, presenting two rolled bundles of cutlery.

"Is there anywhere you'd like me to take this?"

"Oh, I can carry it," Tarquin says. "You don't have to do that."

He steps in to grab one of the plates before any protests can be offered up and then grabs the second before she can blink, too, scooping up the cutlery as well. She edges around them both to take the juice into her own hands, quite literally. The chef looks unbothered as can be, watching the two of them like they've lived here forever, like he's used to this.

"If you need anything, you know where to find me," he explains. "I make a mean midnight snack if I do say so myself."

He's definitely Capitol - just the attitude says it, as well as the lip ring and the three piercings he has in each ear. He's not old, per say, but he looks much younger than she'd guess he really is.

"And you are...?"

"Tycho Alinari - my apologies. Working head chef, at least when Althea's not around. If I'm not around, you can ask for her. She makes an even better smoothie than I do."

He's really, freakishly nice. Tarquin even cracks a smile, but this is probably what he's used to. People in Three are more closed off, on edge almost constantly. They're not open and honest like Tycho is. They're the exact opposite, really.

"Did you say someone else was awake?" she asks, not forgetting his previous words. She wouldn't put it past anyone else.

"Miss Langlois, I do believe. She was in the den down the hall last I saw her, though I did send her down there with her food quite a while ago. You may still be able to catch her."

Ria, oddly enough, does want to catch her. There's been something gnawing away at her brain about Emmi, the knowledge that she was presumably alone all of last night and still is right now. If Ria doesn't want to be alone than she can't imagine Emmi does, either, but Soran and Icarus must be off somewhere together and Tarquin stayed in what is probably her room all night.

No one deserves to be alone right now.

Tycho gives them explicit instructions for what turns out to be a five second walk down the hall and to the right, towards what he called the den. The room looks cozier than most of the others in the house, dimly lit and filled with various couches and chairs. Emmi has taken up position right in the middle of them all, eyes fixed on a projection on the far wall. As she looks up it rewinds, brought back by the control clutched in Emmi's hand. It takes no more than a second for her to avert her eyes, even at the prospect of it.

"It's not... it's not anything too bad," Tarquin says, swallowing thickly. "Just one of the news broadcasts."

That doesn't mean she wants to watch it. She has no idea how Emmi still is, time after time, rewinding it back like it matters.

Like something will change.

She doesn't even flinch when Tarquin sits down beside her. She watches him unroll his cutlery, popping a piece of bacon in his mouth. It's like what Tycho was doing, trying to be casual about it. Tarquin may be, but she's not. Everything is wound tight when she sits down on Emmi's side, setting both glasses of juice down on the table in front of them. Emmi's plate is lying there abandoned, half-eaten. At least the glass of juice is empty. Apple, it looks like.

"Did you sleep?" Tarquin asks. Emmi blinks a few times, rewinds the projection again. Shakes her head.

They're all in the same boat, the three of them.

"I was hoping there would be something here," she says eventually. "Something that gave it away."

It's just a news broadcast, someone talking to the camera. There are brief flickers of on-footage location passing by in the upper right hand corner, emergency services and flashing lights and barely-there images of homes they all had, once upon a time.

It feels like very long ago.

"I don't think that's how it works," Tarquin says. Emmi almost looks worse than how she feels, really, but that's what happens when your own mind goes after you with no one else around to stop it. No one stopped it.

And here she is, trying to fix something that can't be fixed.

"It's not your thing to fix," she says quietly. It's an echo of Evander's words yesterday, and they feel more hollow coming out of her mouth. Not confident, reassuring. Maybe they _should_ be figuring things out because it matters most to them, because everyone else might forget. Who knows if they're even going to try with everything else that's going on?

Emmi looks worse because she looks well and truly shattered. Ria's almost there, but not yet. She inches closer towards the dip in the couch until they're pressed together at the hip, a weak and awful comfort but the only one she knows how to offer. Tarquin puts a hand out, palm up, and Emmi's closes over his with a shaking motion, the pressure building until both of their hands are shaking, together.

They were other people a few weeks ago and these are the shells that are left, containers that held feelings before.

She's not sure what they hold now.

* * *

 **Soran Faerber, 19  
Applicant #8**

* * *

For how closely he was being followed before, finding anyone is a real pain in the ass.

It takes him nearly twenty minutes to find anyone willing to tell him where the hell Pandora ended up, and when he does the guy leads him out one of the many back-doors and out into the gardens, before he points off vaguely in front of him and then fucks off to god knows where.

That seems pretty typical of this place so far. No one wants to get too close.

And Icarus, in that respect, doesn't count.

It's drizzling faintly on top of everything else by the time he gets there, too, the sun vanishing just as quickly as the man did in the first place. The world really must be against them at this point. It's a slow walk throughout the thickest of the gardens, some of the hedges so tall that they tower above his head, but he sees what he must be headed towards from far away. It's a little house just tucked back amidst the tree, surrounded by flowering bushes and even taller grass. The path leading up to it is well maintained, though, treaded on by feet too numerous for him to count.

He doesn't want to do this, but it's not about him. Nothing ever has been. It's better that way.

He scuffs his feet back and forth a few times on the welcome mat before he knocks, rapid-fire. Best to do it that way before he can convince himself not to. He hears a set of footsteps approaching almost instantly - with how early it is, with the lack of instructions, he's surprised to even get a response.

The door opens, and it's Crynn looking back at him.

"Oh," he says _aloud,_ before he can tell himself not to. "Are you— am I not supposed to be here?"

And God, what the hell is that supposed to mean? Is the lack of sleep getting to his brain that badly, or does he just need more meds? It's hard to tell.

Crynn takes a step back without blinking and a few moments later Pandora appears in his place, eyes comically wide.

"Oh!" she says. It's comical how alike they sound in that moment. "Are you okay? Do you need something? I—"

"Perfectly fine, actually. I just wanted to talk."

"Okay, okay. Do you want to come in?"

He doesn't really, but he's still getting rained on and she steps back so easily he can't help but do it. He doesn't leave the doorway though, closing it behind him but keeping it at his back just in case he needs to run. Not that he can.

It's a nice little place, like the cottage-style resort place they built at the edge of One a few years back for tourists. It's small, but still put together. Crynn can step from one end of the kitchen to the other in a mere second. It's still nothing like what he ever lived in, but it feels more comfortable than the behemoth he spent the night in.

Pandora grabs a mug from the edge of the counter and takes a sip, ignoring the steam wafting up into her face. "So, what do you want to talk about?"

Crynn is busying himself with cleaning the kitchen, which already seems spotless. He stares at him a moment longer. "Can I start with asking what his deal is?"

Pandora sighs. "He doesn't have a deal. He lives here."

"So you two are like..."

"You can say the word _together_."

"Thanks," he says drily. "But what's his _deal_? I may have never owned a television but I know what happened to Evander - _he_ can hear me perfectly fine, though, and he just doesn't talk."

"That would be because he's an Avox," Pandora says, voice almost nearly as flat. She stares at him over the brim of her mug, clearly waiting for a reaction. He tries and fails to keep his face neutral; his mouth opens and closes a few times to boot, his brain searching for something appropriate to say even though there can't possibly be.

Crynn turns around and raises an eyebrow.

"What?" he asks finally. Crynn makes a noise that still manages to sound amused even though it's slightly distorted, and as terrible as it sounds that suddenly makes an awful lot of sense.

"That's what my mother said too," Pandora says. "To be fair, you're taking it better than she did."

Soran imagines that's a pretty easy benchmark to pass. He doesn't even know the woman but she sounds like a witch from what little he does know, and witches don't tend to take things they heavily dislike well at all. He's definitely _not_ from the Capitol - that's one check, and just so happens to be tongueless as well. It doesn't make him any less of a person, but maybe to her it does.

"What did you want to talk about?" Pandora prompts. "Something I can help with?"

He swallows, shaking away the last of the lingering thoughts. "I want to figure out who did this."

"We all do."

"But the four of them, they shouldn't. It was different when it was only us being targeted, but let them get too far into this part of it and it's a conflict of interest. You're asking for all four of them to be found so far in the deep end that there's no getting them out. Believe me, I saw the beginning of it last night."

"That doesn't mean you can do it alone."

"Why do you think I'm here?" he asks, and Pandora straightens. Finally he's going to her, asking her for something that he can't do on his own. He would if he had the ability, but he doesn't.

"What do you want me to do?"

"How many people knew all the details? About where we were, when we were going to be there, all of it."

Her eyes have gone from troubled to thoughtful very quickly, edged with the smallest bit of confusion. "A lot. All of New Haven, obviously. Your instructors, and Aelia and Ridge. The President and most of his inner circle. And then there were the contractors, the drivers... I'm telling you, it's more than you think."

"Write it all down."

"And then what?"

"We find proof. We cross names off one by one when we know who it _wasn't_ until there's only one left. And there's our person."

It's not an easy task to give someone; that he's aware of it. He's not capable of it, though, and he's not sure he knows anyone else who is. It means grovelling to the one person he never wanted to, but she's here and he knows she wants to help.

Crynn signs something, too quick to catch.

"He wants to know _what then_ ," Pandora says. "What happens when we find our person?"

"Well, you won't like my answer." He shrugs, but neither of them blink an eye at it. "Let's just say _to be determined_."

For some strange reason they both think fine of that, like that's an appropriate answer to their problems. He's not sure what will happen, really. It probably won't be up to him if they ever get to that point.

"Alright," Pandora agrees. "I'll make the list, I'll get someone to get you access to my office and the library, along with all the security log-ins if you need it. On one condition."

"What?"

"You go to sleep first."

"What?" he repeats. It feels like the only word he knows anymore.

"I know you haven't slept," she clarifies. "I can tell. Remember that I brought you here to _rest_ \- you're still recovering. I'll make the list so long as you go to sleep. We can start when you wake up."

What a bargain that is, because she knows he'll do it. He's actually going to listen to her to get what he wants. Maybe he'll have to consider that their first step into something resembling a relationship, if nothing else. At least they're meeting in the middle; it's not like he wants to go to sleep. He's not even sure he can close his eyes without worrying, right now. He's exhausted, though. Everything aches worse than it did before due to his night on the bathroom floor.

"Okay," he accepts. "Okay, I'll go. Thanks."

"I can walk you back."

"No need. Already going."

She's in a pair of flimsy pajamas, barefoot. He's slow as hell right now, he'll admit, but she won't catch him at this pace, and she probably wouldn't anyway. They've agreed on something, they're going to work on this. There won't be any more pushing today.

It's still raining, faintly, and he sloshes his way through all of the slowly forming puddles all the way back to the house. Every single person he comes across once inside gives him a once over, damp and dragging his feet, probably purple under the eyes. He feels dead all over again without actually being it, and he's going back to the place he's already considering their room before he even realizes it.

He shouldn't, is the thing. He doesn't know what the fuck they're doing anymore, didn't expect to still be alive in order to do it. One or both of them should have been dead by now, and now that they're both alive for the immediate future it seems all the more confusing.

That doesn't stop him, though, and maybe that's a testament to how exhausted he really is. The room is dark when he gets there and he blunders around for a very long minute, kicking his shoes off somewhere into the middle of the room to be tripped over whenever one of them wakes up. Probably not for a while, then. He ends up only half under whatever sort of blankets exist because his eyes haven't adjusted yet, and he couldn't care less anyway. He doesn't see Icarus, either, but feels him roll closer and a hand nudges blindly against his side a moment later.

"Why are you _wet?"_ he mumbles, confusion evident in the slur of his voice, and he sounds so out of it that it doesn't even feel like a complaint.

He mumbles something that definitely isn't a word, and Icarus responds in much the same way, wrapping that same hand around his wrist. His fingers rest there for a moment, tapping against all the fresh scarring, before he falls still.

Asleep already, it seems, and Soran follows him seconds later.

* * *

 **Crisantha Gardell-Archeron, 31  
First Lady of Panem**

* * *

A patriot of the new Panem - that's what everyone calls Tate Archeron.

That's what he looks like in the papers, the broadcasts, the meetings, the charity galas. He looks like Panem as it was, like he was cut from Seven itself, tall and strong, everything a President should be. Don't get her wrong, Lucerne hadn't been bad either. Too old, definitely, considering she didn't even make it to the end of both terms, but she was good. Reliable.

She wasn't Tate though, is what people say now.

But she sees what they don't.

He's looked frazzled for days now, a slight manic sheen in his eyes that had never, ever been there before. She wouldn't have married him if she had seen that look before, because it's positively terrifying. There's no Seven in him then, no Capitol at all. Right then he looks all the picture of a Career before choosing day rolled around, beating themselves over and over to make sure they got it right.

"Are you really going to do this?" she asks.

Tate doesn't break stride from whatever it is that he's doing. She hasn't asked, recently, because everything she's gotten out of him in the past hour has been useless information to go off of anyway.

He's not telling her everything, just enough to keep her complacently quiet about this whole thing.

"You make it seem like a big deal."

"You're making an official speech in front of representatives of the ten biggest broadcasters in the country - I'd say it _is_ a big deal. Do you even have an outline prepared?"

"Sariah's writing one up, I think. She'll have it done before."

Before, yet still the same morning as said speech. It's not going to be an overly impressive crowd with the room closed off, but it's going to be several dozen prominent reporters and even more cameras, microphones, all shoved into his face asking questions they really don't have answers for.

"Relax, Cris," he says eventually, noting her furrowed brow. "It's fine."

"What are you going to say?"

"Whatever I have to. All the press needs to know is that we're investigating but we have no leads, and that even though we've got a handful of rather tragically dead parents in our hands we don't know why they were targeted specifically, and no one else has anything to fear. Does that sound good enough to you?"

"You know why they were the ones killed."

"I—"

"You know why, Tate," she insists. "Are you insinuating that you're _not_ making an announcement about the five of them tomorrow?"

"There's no reason to."

"Surely them being _alive_ is reason enough?" she asks, voice rising. "No? Then what are you going to do? When are you doing it?"

"Hey, hey," he says easily. He crouches down in front of her, hands braced at the edge of the chair." _Relax_. They're locked down at Rose Point. No one is going to find out about them and no one needs to. You know what it'll do to the country; one match gets dropped and the whole tinder box goes up. We can't afford that right now."

"You can't keep them a secret."

"I have to," he insists.

"How long do you think they'll accept being stuck there?" she asks. "Another week? A month? Eventually someone is going to push back."

Someone always pushes back. Surely Tate and her of all people have learned that lesson, bloody history alongside it. They've seen enough of it to know, been a part of it even more so.

"They are locked down," he says slowly, like she's stupid. He hasn't ever talked to her like that, either. "They are going to stay that way. You read the reports from Witsonee too, about what they told the guards they did. One of them murdered two of those guards within a single minute."

"Your brother killed two people, or are you forgetting? One of them was his District partner, Tate, and she was _thirteen._ "

"And he died for it anyway!" Tate shouts. "And his killer died, too, and no one remembers or gives a damn except me and you. And that was _your_ Aunt's doing. She had all the power in the world to stop the Games and she didn't."

"You know that's not how it works."

"You're right, it's not. And that's why we're not just letting these kids walk away from this - we can't walk away from this. We can't just forgot about what happened like it never did."

Part of her breath catches in her chest at that, maybe due to the conviction in his voice. It's a more vicious passion than the kind that fit into all of his grand speeches, the ones that made him feel like he could do anything, fix the whole word and lead it, too. That voice from before was part of the reason she loved him so much, but this...

She doesn't even know what _this_ is.

"What are you going to do?" she asks quietly. Tate looks at her, unblinking. He turns away for a second to reshuffle the papers he had been rifling through not so long ago, doing nothing with them but making them easier.

"What are you going to do?" she repeats, but now he won't even look up.

He's a terrible, terrible fucking liar. It's one of his only terrible traits, only with whatever this is.

"Nothing," he says evenly, voice blank. "Nothing yet."

"Tate," she says firmly. It feels like scolding a fucking child that she doesn't even have yet. How could she even want to bring a child into this right now when they're still dying anyway?

"You're right, I need to go talk to Sariah." He skirts past her chair with half the papers in his hand. He's not going to talk to Sariah, and they both know it. "Oh, and Cris?"

"What?" she asks flatly, not bothering to turn around.

"You know they're going to be here tomorrow."

"I'm aware."

"And you have no personal feelings about that. Nothing? The two people in this world most directly responsible for murdering your Aunt in cold blood and you have nothing to say about that? They're going to be right here, under our noses. All because they don't trust us."

This time she actually manages a laugh, a bitter sound that only lasts a second or two. "Can't say I blame them. I don't trust us either."

The door slams behind her before the words have even finished echoing, leaving her alone in their shared office. It's late. Not late enough to go to sleep for most people, but she feels as if she could close her eyes and sink under forever. That's what happens when you're faced with a choice, a task that seems wrong and yet all too right.

She pulls her tablet closer, leaving it resting along the arm of the chair. Leighton hasn't gone home, yet. They never do this early. She punches in the direct number and waits no more than a few seconds before they pick up. No doubt they're still sitting downstairs, working on planning some event or other. They've always been the best at that in a way that no one else is, that's why they work for her and not someone else.

"What can I do for you, lovely?" Leighton asks, as if this hasn't broken their stride at all. It probably hasn't.

"I need to get in contact with Rose Point Estate. Preferably someone with some weight."

They hum. "You know, I'm pretty sure the house's phone lines are down. Confidentiality, and all that? Or whatever their excuse was."

"What about Pandora Quinn, then? A personal number?"

"I can do that, probably. Give me two minutes."

The receiver goes quiet, and so she sits back to wait. She needs that number. She needs _a drink._

Both things would be ideal, really. Both and then she'll be content.

Both, and then she can blow this shit wide open.

* * *

If you're still reading and feel anywhere near obligated to leave me even like, a three word review, I'm not... opposed to that. Otherwise I know it's a very busy time of year for most people so I hope you're all doing well!

Until next time.


	46. The World's A Stage

XLIII: The Capitol - Rose Point Estate.

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17  
Applicant #10**

* * *

There's nothing in his dreams but darkness.

No good, no bad. No horrors lurking just out of sight. Just blissful, empty black and heavy warmth, the feeling of a pulse underneath his searching fingertips.

It's as close as he's come in a long while to peace, even before everything. That's including the past seven months, nearing eight. He had no peace then, but an awful lot of quiet. Too much of it, really, but he couldn't escape it.

It was quiet now, too, save for a faint rustling. Soran's hand pulls away from beneath his fingers and he still stretches them out anyway, long after it's gone. Icarus rolls over, shifts his weight until his forehead bumps into something vaguely warm - his back, if he had to hazard a guess, but then that disappears too. His head thunks into the mattress with a soft thud.

"What're you doing?" he mumbles.

"Getting up," comes the reply, but it sounds as bleary as his own voice was. "It's been like sixteen hours."

"Fuck," he manages, but it sounds like another word entirely muffled into the mattress. His brain is slowly coming to life with the realization of that, along with everything else, and _shit_ he doesn't want to think about it, he can't think about it. His head isn't thumping anymore, finally. He doesn't want to think about it anymore.

It's there, though, a nagging reminder.

They're still dead.

"You don't have to get up," Soran says quietly, and then his weight disappears altogether. A drawer slides open and then slams shut.

"Why are you getting up?"

"To go do something."

"What?"

"Nothing," Soran says easily. "Fuck, trying to find clothes in here is like looking for a needle in a goddamn haystack. Didn't she say there would be shit around here for us?"

"What are you going to do?" he asks, this time with more intent. He lifts his head up a few inches but it hurts his neck after too long, so he flops back down again. His eyes still haven't properly adjusted, and all he can make out is Soran's shadowy outline ambling around the room. He still doesn't sound the most convincing himself, but now his voice is coming back. He's awake for good.

"Nothing," he repeats. "Just don't worry about it."

Oh, he's worrying. There's purpose in his voice, then, and it says that something's being hidden from him. People don't usually try that with him - he's too fucking insatiably curious not to figure things out, eventually, and everyone knows it. Hiding things from him is just prolonging the inevitable.

And Soran's not like that, really. He's the opposite.

He sits up. "Seriously, what are you doing?"

This time, to boot, he gets fucking _ignored_. It's not like Soran doesn't hear him, either. He's been hearing every word and either ignoring it or hiding what's happening and Icarus can't decide which is worse. Both are bad, certainly. Soran can't just go on dancing around him. He waits a few more seconds, but Soran evidently finds whatever it is that he's looking for quicker than he has any right to in his state and is out the door before Icarus can even process what just happened.

Oh, no he doesn't.

He launches himself out of bed onto both feet, the first time he's been able to do so without any pain in several agonizingly long days. It's all too easy to catch up with him, not ten paces down the hall. It takes everything in him to ignore the flash of pain that comes over Soran's face when he grabs his arm and pulls him to a halt. If he lingers on it too long his resolve will shatter, and it's already thin as is.

"C'mon," he prompts. "Tell me."

"You can't ever just leave something alone, can you?"

"Have you met me?"

"Have you ever considered that I'm not telling you for a reason?"

"What's the reason, then?"

"Jesus," Soran mutters. "I'm going to talk to Pandora and I don't want you involved. Happy?"

"Not really, no."

Soran sighs. Icarus knows if he lets go of his arm he's going to take off, and he's not sure he has the energy to keep chasing him. It's an exhausting job and he hasn't even been at it that long. He looks frustrated; maybe not at Icarus directly, but he wouldn't be surprised if that was the case. That's how their relationship started after all, one annoyance to another.

He really thought they were past this.

"I'm going to talk to Pandora," he repeats. "Because we're going to figure out who did this."

"So why _wouldn't_ I worry about that?" he asks. "You don't think I want to help?"

"I don't want your help."

" _Why not_?"

Soran mutters something under his breath and then tugs his arm free from Icarus' grip, making it a few paces away. Oh no, though, he's not just tired, now, he's annoyed. That gives him more than enough energy to follow and grab at him again before he can get anywhere, but Soran pulls away once again. At least it gets him to stop, though it doesn't look like he wants to.

"Whoever did this," Soran starts. "Whoever _did this_ killed seven more people - I know I don't need to remind you of that. And I know your relationship with them may not have been beyond stellar but it doesn't fucking _matter_ because whoever this was killed them anyway. We lived, they retaliated. What do you think's going to happen if we keep pushing?"

"I'm trying not to imagine."

"Exactly! You know something else is going to happen, we all do."

"So what, you're putting yourself in the line of fire _again_? Your hand is still fucked possibly beyond repair because of the last time you did that, and you're doing it again?"

"It doesn't matter if I do it."

"Like fuck it doesn't matter—"

"It _doesn't_ ," he insists. "If it was one of you four, if it was anyone else, it would. But it's me. It doesn't matter if they're looking at me because they can't fucking do anything about it - there's nothing and no one they can take from me that hasn't already been taken."

It's funny, sort of, because he was the one that punched Soran however many days ago. Right now it feels like the other way around, and this time it feels like it actually did something. It feels like he ought to be black and blue, like he's bleeding. He's not, though. Instead there's just no physical evidence to the pain; no one will know he's feeling it.

Except Soran, maybe, who's eyes have shifted in a _maybe I shouldn't have said that_ sort of way even though there's no taking it back now. He looks slightly more defensive, too, posture rigid and held back. Like he's waiting for a blow.

A blow that he knows won't come, too, because Icarus can't hit him. Icarus can't hit him because he'd feel too fucking bad about it.

"Are you fucking serious?" he asks. His voice is back now, after several seconds of resetting action, different than before. This is the voice that belonged to him in the month after Estella, when people would come to check on him. When they eventually stopped.

Indifferent, frigid, guarded.

Hurting too bad on the inside to try for anything else.

"You're not fucking serious," he says. "You can't actually believe that's true."

"It is."

"It isn't!" he snaps. "How has everything leading up to _this_ convinced you that you don't have anything? Is your fucking _life_ not good enough for you? They've already proven that they could take that. And what about me? Do I suddenly not fucking matter in this? Imagine that, huh, they come in here and decide to fucking kill me because they can't get to you. Would that not matter at all?"

Oh, there we go. Now Soran's not trying to run _and_ he's not talking. An ideal combination, in most worlds. Right now it's pretty high up on the list of terrible things that could be happening right now.

That list is pretty long, too. He's had a lot of things to add to it recently.

His eyes are just blank. Like empty, bottomless pits. If he remembered only one thing from that brief stint in training it was the Career level shutdown that's happening in him right now.

"Have you ever considered that this is exactly why you have nothing?" he asks. "This is just what you do, isn't it? Everything around you just gets all sorts of fucked up because that's all you know how to do, because you're an asshole. That's how it's been your whole life, right, so why change now?"

Icarus has never in his life stunned someone so thoroughly into silence - he's choosing to believe that's what's happening right now instead of him watching the last of Soran's care for anything in the world spiral down the drain. If that's the case he has to think it was already happening, and he's just the nail in the figurative coffin. Here's Icarus, putting that six feet under. Fucking good for him, apparently.

"You're an asshole," he says again. "And you know it's not true."

He turns, has his hand back on the door, and then he hears the intake of breath. He almost rips the door open and ducks inside before he can hear anything else.

He doesn't want to hear anything else.

"Except it's true right now, isn't it?" Soran asks. His voice sounds like his eyes look. Faraway. Too far.

"Fuck you," he answers. He can't come up with anything else except for that, and at least this time there's a proper amount of venom in his voice, enough for Soran to know that he means it.

He doesn't get far. There's just enough time for him to open the door and not much else; he doesn't even get a second to step inside.

"Guys," Pandora says. He nearly screams aloud. It's a good thing he doesn't. When he turns to look Soran's already done the same, turning to her at the other end of the hall. It doesn't look as if she heard any of it.

He might just die on the spot if she had.

Her look is appraising, flicking between the two of them. There's something there, a small realization perhaps. Not enough to get the whole picture, and he's definitely not about to tell her. Who knows now though, with Soran apparently willingly talk to her. She might just found out quicker than he would have expected.

The look disappears even quicker, though. The one she has now he's come to associate with some sort of doom and gloom, especially after what she's told them already. It can't get any worse, though. Can it?

Maybe it can.

"I need to talk to you guys," she says. "Please. It's important."

Fuck his _life_.

It never ends, does it?

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17  
Applicant #13**

* * *

"Can you not just tell us now?" she asks Evander. "I feel like I'm being led on a wild goose chase."

Maybe they are. That would be mildly hilarious, and better than whatever she's picturing.

Not that she really has a picture at all. She's trying to avoid one if she's being honest.

"Pandora's just gonna, you know, group conversation it," he says. "Quicker. Easier. And I don't really know the whole story."

Oh, so there's a story now? That must be great.

Even Ria seems to agree, offering up a small murmur of concern and nothing else. If she's being led on a wild goose chase then Ria is practically sprinting to keep up with the two of them and their longer legs. Ria, who had been with her all day and into the night, all the way into the wee hours of today. She doesn't even know where Tarquin's gone, or if he's trying to sleep somewhere.

Ria's still here, though. It's oddly nice.

She slows up a hair - Evander shoots ahead without noticing after a few seconds, but Ria clearly appreciates it.

"Do you wanna go find him?" she murmurs.

"Crynn's on it!" Evander calls back. How they're essentially now being parented by three people ten or so odd years older than them now is beyond her. How the hell does Crynn know where Tarquin is, and why does he know it better than she does?

It's just weird, is all.

It is, however, a welcome distraction from everything else. It would be even nicer if she could imagine that it was a good thing they were headed to hear instead of something awful, but it has to be. There's no way this sense of urgency is coming with good news - things don't work that way. From what Emmi's learned of people thus far, even, they don't seem too great in the sharing good news department at all.

Evander finally props open a door for the two of them not far from the main staircase, the door to what she's come to known as Pandora's office. She herds Ria inside before she steps in herself. Not a moment later and Tarquin is getting ushered in behind her by a only slightly frantic-looking Crynn. Soran looks up at her, balanced over the back of one of the many chairs strewn around the place, but Icarus stays staring at the table, a very sullen look in his eyes. He's also standing a rough fifteen feet away from everyone else, minimum.

If only she had time to wonder about that.

"Shut the door, please," Pandora asks, and Evander does so with a near-silent click.

"Can I leave?" she asks.

"I'll make it quick. You can go after that, if you want."

Is Emmi _not_ going to want to? God, what hell could possibly be waiting for them now if she might not want to?

Pandora perches at the edge of the table, brushing a few stray hairs from her face. She looks quite frazzled if Emmi says so herself. "I got a call not long ago."

"Okay?" Tarquin asks, saying the word exactly as she feels it. If this is quick she can't imagine what's slow. For people that have a lot of news to share this family certainly seems to do so at the slowest rate possible. At least Soran hasn't joined in on that particular thread just yet.

"It was Crisantha Gardell. The President's wife."

She looks around at everyone, as if waiting for a reaction. As far as Emmi can tell no one gives her one. Ria continues gnawing on the inside of her cheek as she's been doing for the past minute and a half. Soran presses both hands to his temples and rubs a few circles there, letting out a breath between his teeth.

"Anyway," Pandora says slowly. Apparently they're no longer a very expressive bunch. "She told me that the President is doing a press conference shortly. He's making an announcement about... about your parents. Nothing specific, and nothing about you. And from what she told me, and she believes it too, he has no plans to announce anything about you five anytime soon."

"Wait, what?" Tarquin asks. Everything that's come out of his mouth lately has sounded confused. It's valid, really.

"He has his reasons, clearly. He probably doesn't want this getting out."

"And like fuck I care what he wants, right?" Soran asks. He pushes his chair out and stands up.

"Where are you going?" Pandora questions.

"I will walk to wherever the hell he's doing this press conference just to ruin his day if you don't get someone to drive me, and I imagine it'll take a long fucking time in my state. Probably won't feel too great, either."

"And do what?" Evander asks. "I'm not in support of hiding this, either, but what he wants—"

"What he wants won't matter if someone else sees us or hears us," Tarquin interrupts. "I... I'm with him, honestly. It's not even about me, at this point, but he's going to tell everyone that my parents died randomly, that they died for nothing. That's not right."

In her mind she's already halfway there, wherever there even is. It's really not fucking right, their President being a huge fucking liar number one. If they don't do this it feels an awful lot like letting someone get away with something, and she's been through with that for a while now. She's determined not to let anyone else even more than it already has been.

It's in her hands, now.

"We may not even be able to get in the building," Pandora points out. "Not with his security."

"Just threaten to off them, that should work," she says under her breath, but she see Soran's smirk regardless. Apparently they're really doing that now. It might be the only thing that works. People may just start valuing their life over everything else; it's about damn time.

"I think what matters more is what we do once we get inside," Icarus says. "Has anyone put any thought into that at all, or are we just going to continue bullshitting our way through everything we say and do?"

"I mean, I'm down for that," she says, but doesn't miss the darker pitch in his voice, his quick glance up and over at Soran before he goes right back down, this time to the floor, still with that petulant stare.

Oh boy, is she not even going to ask. _She_ values her life, thank you very much.

They really don't have a plan, though. The last time they did it was Ria's doing, and Ria is very much silent now. That's what's to be expected of her when she finds out she might get shoved in front of a camera or a microphone. Emmi wouldn't ask her to do the talking, either. It doesn't become her. It won't make anything better either, that she's certain of.

Maybe there is no good plan for this. Maybe they just have to do it and hope for the best.

"You think the Mervaine's are here yet?" Evander asks. His voice is quieter than before, more thoughtful.

"Probably," Pandora answers. "Why?"

"Well, we know they're on our side," he says. "Back-up?"

And that's their party, really. The eight people in this room and the Mervaine's, who she wouldn't bother trusting as far as she could throw them if Ferrox hadn't quite literally brought Soran back from the dead.

She's never had a good throwing arm, anyway.

Pandora sighs. In that moment she looks nearly as frustrated as Soran did a few minutes ago, and it's a funny sight to behold.

She looks to Crynn, then. "Can you get a car? Quickly? Don't bother with a driver, just keep it on the down-low. I'll see if I can get a hold of them."

Crynn nods and slips out of the door, silent as a shadow. The way they'll probably all have to do things if they have any hope of this succeeding, of doing something worthwhile. It might be hard, for most of them. She can't remember the last time she did something quickly, and it certainly wasn't something this important. No, this could make or break them.

It might seem scarier if she hadn't already nearly died a few times over. Her stomach, though, is still scarred. Still aches slightly when she least expects it.

This, in comparison? This is fucking child's play, and she can only hope that the whole world is about to see it.

* * *

 **Tarquin Vierra, 16  
Applicant #4**

* * *

Someone, somehow, figures out where they need to be.

The speed at which Crynn is driving though suggests they ought to have been there a few minutes ago.

Better late than never, he guesses.

The streets in the heart of the city are a maze - even he rarely came down here, especially not by himself. It was always with his parents, some of his friends. Not that it was dangerous, really. Not more dangerous than living in general.

It was just... imposing, is all. Like something that would swallow you whole and refuse to spit you back out.

Oddly enough, now, it didn't seem that scary. Maybe because he knew what scary actually looked like, now.

"You're going left," Evander says, and in the briefest break of traffic Tarquin had ever seen in his life Crynn pulled the car down the closest left turn. He'd have been clutching at the seat if he had the room to, but he had the feeling seven people weren't meant to be crammed in a car this size.

It's a good thing Pandora didn't shove herself in here, too. No, she's on Operation Mervaine, or whatever the hell they're calling it. If it's even an operation at all.

"This isn't usually where they do them," Evander mutters, almost as if he meant to keep that to himself. Emmi whirls on him with a raised eyebrow.

"So he's just being more of a jackass than usual? Hiding?"

"Seems that way."

Soran and Icarus mutter near-identical things under their breath which would be funny, really, if they were interacting at all. They're not even sitting next to each other.

Ria glances up as they pull to a stop next to a non-descript building only a few stories tall, gray-brown in the weak sun. It doesn't look like anything at all. There's more cars parked at the side of the road than he would hazard there normally are, but that doesn't have to mean anything. That, or it means there's a room full of reporters and important people tucked away inside.

"Can I just stay in the car?" she asks. Tarquin reaches across her to pop the back door open; she's so thoroughly squashed against it that he's not even sure she could get an arm up to do it herself.

"If you want," he offers immediately, starting to crawl his way out of the car without squashing her for good. This isn't Ria's thing, he knows. She's certainly not going to be the one to get in front of a camera, at least not willingly. He can't say he blames her.

"Not happening," Evander interrupts. Tarquin finishes clambering over her and out of the car just in time for Evander to herd her out anyway. "I'm not leaving any one of you where I can't see you."

Ria sighs, full of resignation, and pulls herself out of the car after him. Her movement doesn't have near enough urgency to go along with the situation, but it's like he said - this isn't her thing. She wants to be here even less than the rest of them do, guaranteed.

"It's okay," he murmurs. "Just keep your head down."

They should all be taking that advice, really, but she's the one that needs it.

Evander really is trying to herd them all like sheep, a job he feels would normally be Pandora's job if she were here to do it. He doesn't look nearly as comfortable as she would, and he barely knows her. Up against the side of the building they go, even though there's no one around this way. There's a larger congregation of cars up ahead, and a few people milling about on the sidewalks, looking the other way.

Someone, normally, would be making Evander's job harder than it has to be, but even Soran appears to be staying in line. Tarquin doesn't want to imagine what would happen if he didn't.

"Yeah, yeah, go," Evander says, and Crynn takes off. Not in the urgent sense, but it looks like he knows what he's doing. He disappears into the alley, holding onto one of those tablets that everyone in the vicinity seems to have. Tarquin can't tell from this distance what exactly it is that he's looking at.

"Has it started?" Emmi asks.

"Looks like it."

"Then what are we standing here for?"

"And does she have them, or not?" Soran asks. "Christ, if they can't get here we'll do something else."

"You want a speech, I can totally give a speech—"

Emmi cuts Icarus off with one hell of an exasperated look. "If someone wants to hear you talk about yourself for a few minutes, we'll let you know."

He almost laughs, _almost_ , if only because of the look on Icarus' face. Even Ria bites down on her lip to keep something from coming out.

"Alright, just go," Evander instructs. "Go after Crynn, wait for him to okay anything you're doing. I'm going to call her."

Maybe the biggest surprise of all is that Ria is the first to shuffle her way down the alleyway in the direction Crynn went, apparently more eager than even he believed to get out of the street before someone saw them. It's strange how an alley even feels like relative safety now, when almost noting else does.

It doesn't take long to find him, either, up a set of three uneven stairs and holding open a rather inconspicuous back door, looking this way and that. If he wasn't standing in the way someone would have just barged in by now, he's sure. Crynn though takes his time to look around before he gestures for them to come up as well. Tarquin ducks under his arm, into the faintly lit back hallway. The light overhead is flickering, faintly, but not as if it's about to go out.

Crynn looks down at the tablet again and then points off down the hall, gesturing until someone gets the hint. It's not him, though. Emmi shoves past him and heads off down the hallway. You know he learned sign language once too, like five sentences worth for a student-written play. He probably should have done more than that.

If he doesn't hurry up they're going to leave him in the dust, so he hurries after all four of them. Crynn stays at the door for a moment longer but there's no sign of Evander, and eventually he follows too.

He can _hear_ people through the walls, around corners that he doesn't know about. People who know about them, no doubt, and people who don't. They're all in for the rudest of awakenings if they can pull this off; he's not even really sure yet what _this_ is.

"So, what happens if we get stopped?" he asks. Only Ria turns back to look at him, no surprise there. She looks just as confused about the prospect.

"As long as one of us gets through does it really matter?" Icarus asks.

Crynn nudges him in the arm, so he misses the next too-quick burst of conversation that happens in front of him. He looks down at the tablet - there's a little layout of what looks like a building, and he blinks a few times. Crynn pulls up something else, too, a few lines of text typed out on an otherwise blank page.

It takes him a few minutes to realize they're directions - haphazard ones, but directions nonetheless.

"Oh," he says slowly, after a moment. "Guys, hard left."

Miraculously, someone listens. He's sure not all of them, but the herd follows whoever turns first and then him and Crynn bringing up the rear. By these words they're closer than even he would have expected, the voices growing progressively louder. It won't be long, now. Soon it'll be just them and the prospect of the stage, the interruption. The world knowing everything, or almost everything.

Whatever they can manage to get out before they're stopped, really.

He keeps calling out directions, less time in between them with every once he announces. They finally hit a door just ahead - there are too many lights spilling through the cracks for it to be anywhere other than their final destination, just before the real deal. And one by one they trickle to a halt, all realizing the same thing.

They could go another way, but this one's the quickest.

"So who's going?" Soran asks.

"Well, not us three," Emmi hisses, gesturing back to him and Ria as well as herself. "If you're going for inconspicuous—"

"Got it, Jesus." Soran reaches for the door, and two seconds later Icarus swats him out of the way, with clear intent to do it himself. There's something exchanged too quickly for him to even process. It makes sense, really. Soran shouldn't be doing it, even though he's not so fragile anymore.

It doesn't really matter, though. They're in the process of not-exactly shoving each other to get to the door when it opens anyway, from the other side.

Both of them go still. Emmi plasters a massively fake smile at her face, turning to the two security guards standing at the threshold. Ria looks at the ceiling. He can't tell what Crynn's doing because he's too terrified to look away, lest something happen while he does.

There's two, a man and a woman. The man looks at them with a raised eyebrow, confusing spilling over into his eyes. The woman, though, is blank-faced, something deeper hidden there.

That may just be understanding.

Which means she knows. About them in general, and the need to keep them away, he has no doubt.

Well, that's not very good.

There's a very ridiculously loud burst of commotion. He doesn't stick around to see who's causing it.

It's amazing how much can happen in such a few seconds. He spins on his heel and Crynn side-steps out of the way, already thinking the same thing. Tarquin's back down the hall and turning down the opposite way, the back-up plan, before anyone even sees him do it. No one's following him, either. If he makes another two rights then he should be in about the same area. Maybe he'll be able to sneak in alone and get there.

It's not what he wanted to do, mind you. Before it came so naturally, and now the thought of taking even one step out into the public eye makes him want to throw up.

If only anyone else was going to be able to get there.

There is indeed another door, and just as much light. It means he may still have as little time as they did before, so he doesn't hesitate. The door caves under his hand - the few people that haven't turned to the commotion at the other one lock eyes on him instantly, but no one comes running for him. It's just a little room, attached to something else. That's where all the lights are coming from, the loudest of the voices, the barely-there glint of a few camera lenses, all pointed forward.

And that's where he needs to do.

His stomach is turning. He nearly gets sick halfway across the room, moving too fast to let anything settle. Just a few more steps and he's there. That's it.

He could reach forward, now, push his way through the door. He'd be there.

Someone grabs him so tightly just before he does that it _hurts_ , a hand locked around his elbow. It feels as if it could explode under the pressure. He has no idea who it is and can hardly see him with how close he is, just the uniform of another security guard over top of a figure that is far too tall and broad for him to get anywhere far.

He gets dragged two feet away from the door, and then his arm gets wrenched back so hard he swears it almost pops free from his shoulder, clamping down on the yell that rises from his throat. He definitely can't see now, either. He's facing the wrong way.

The hand releases him too abruptly for him to do anything proper about it, and he goes stumbling gracelessly into the door. His skin feels raw where the hand was.

He has a hand on the door, now, turns and opens it. There's even more commotion, now. He sees a flash of Evander, and Pandora too, and _there's_ the back-up they so desperately needed in the form of Ferrox and Cambria virtually manhandling the guy who had him back across the room.

He opens the door and steps out. It slams behind him before he can catch it. He's still hidden behind the few feet of wall that's left before the open stage, but the slam echoes back and forth across the room several times.

No one can see him, yet. Just everyone in the room behind him and the President looking at him now.

And oh, what a look it is.

Tarquin isn't sure there's any single one emotion there; no, there's too many to pick one. Confusion that bleeds too rapidly into barely concealed nerves too obvious for everyone watching not to notice. And then, a second later, something worse. Tarquin can see pleading clear as day in his eyes, can hear it too, everything he can't say now.

 _Please don't do this. Please._

He's never liked liars, is the thing. And there's a difference between playing a role, being someone else for a few days, and being something awful permanently.

He'd like to think he's the former. He still hopes he is.

The silence has gone on too long, the staring. A steady murmur is starting up in the sea of reporters and camera-man, wondering what he's looking at. Wondering what they can't see.

If only they knew.

It was like what Myra always called him, though. _Shakespeare -_ like it was a joke, like it wasn't necessarily true.

It is, is the thing. And it's just like putting the mask back on.

That pleading is still there when Tarquin feels the smile on his face, just the littlest of things, and he watches it disappear. Begging, a desperate plea, flipping the switch to horror. Maybe that's just what happens, when someone who's already gotten rid of thirteen others is smiling in your face.

Or maybe he's realized that he's done for.

Not quite number fourteen, really... but it almost feels like he is.

* * *

 **Ferrox Mervaine, 48  
Former Head Gamemaker**

* * *

To put it politely, all hell breaks loose.

It's a very obnoxious sort of hell, too. Everyone's being way too whacky with the shouting, if you ask him. At least one of those kids at the other door has caught an elbow somewhere they didn't deserve one.

And the guy he's holding onto is still fighting him, for crying out loud.

"Alright, dude, chill pill," he insists, and then lets go of him. He goes stumbling away only to turn back, red in the face like a ripe tomato, looking like he's about to... what, hurt him?

Good fucking luck with that.

"Can anyone even hear what he's saying?" Cambria interrupts, shoving her way between them. Maybe Sir Angry will feel less angry if it's a lady he's hitting; it certainly looks that way, because he comes grinding to a halt. His head still looks like it's about to split into ten different pieces in a very spectacular explosion.

"Might wanna look for a new job, pal," he says. "Does it matter what he's saying? The cameras got 'em."

They _definitely_ have him, if the flashing bulbs making an impact all the way over here are any indication. That combined with the live television... someone's going to be doing some damage control later. Or maybe they should just start right now.

Crisantha is nowhere in sight, which is sort of funny. He only met her a handful of times, Dominika's niece, all the way back in her early teen years. The whole Presidential loyalty spiel must just be a part of the bloodline. Or at least it was, until she snitched to Pandora.

It's even funnier, at that.

"You might want to watch the stage," he calls to Evander, who's in-between people that he continues to pluck out of the angry, writhing pile at the door. "I would, but he might hit me."

Scratch that, Tate will certainly hit him. He's only met him _once_.

It didn't go well, is all he's saying.

"Oh, he's _pissed_ ," Cambria observes. He can't really see out the door from this angle, but he can imagine it. Hopefully the image is at least half of reality - it's amusing either way, growing that way the longer he thinks about it. "I think he is talking, actually."

All the kudos in the world to the kid for whatever he's monologue about now. If that weird, off-hand loyalty was in the Gardell line, then maybe there was something to be said about having green hair and giving great speeches.

Not that he had his, anymore, but it still counted. And boy could Mercia go off on tangents if he told her he was listening.

It had to be a thing.

Better yet, people actually seemed to _listen_ when he talked, more-so than they did before. He always had that part of him but it was stronger, now, a swaying power that drew people over even when they didn't have a clue in hell to what he was talking about. This time Evander goes for the door just in time for Tate to step through it, dragging Tarquin along with him.

Not quick enough, though. There's a fucking uproar going around the press-room. Someone's shouting loud enough to wake the dead, him included.

Tate had better be grateful that someone took these's kids parents out; if he saw someone dragging one of his kids around like that, let alone the President, they'd have been dead a few times over by now. Hell hath no fury, and all that. Tate would count himself lucky that he was still standing.

He lets go, at least. Tarquin goes stumbling away, past the both of them, and finally Pandora catches his arm. At least that grip is a gentle one.

It doesn't seem to matter, though. Dare he say it - Tarquin looks a smidgen fucking satisfied. It's the only other mood he's seen him in other than downright miserable.

A massive improvement.

"What's up, Pres?" he asks. Tate only seems to notice them both standing there at his words, because his eyes go even wider than they already were. Anymore and they'll fall right out of his big head. Ferrox has never been an overly impressive specimen himself but Tate seems even larger now, somehow. Maybe it's all that anger going around the room.

If it's not that, he's leaning more heavily to the opinion that an actual tree is leading the country.

"Do you have any idea what you just did?" he asks. His voice is even angrier than his demeanor - how that's possibly is beyond him.

"Hey, I'm just here," he insists. "Why do I always get blamed for everything?"

"You know why," Cambria mutters. Realistically it should be her getting the blame for any and all randomly awful things going on, but no one ever thinks that way.

He's used to the fallout, by now. He embraces it.

"I could have you all _killed_ ," he emphasizes. It's not just the two of them he's referring to anymore, and even the security guards seem to shy away at his words, drawing all the attention to the wrongful intruders. "All of you, do you understand me? How does the firing squad sound to you?"

"How does me adding a second President to my list sound to _you_?" Cambria says, and oh, that's her scary voice. That one scares even him.

It scares Tate too, evidently. He had looked about ready to advance on them, but he goes ram-rod straight at that. One of the security guards turn on her, and then two more.

"Try it," he offers. One of them swallows, and doesn't move.

No one does. _Finally_.

"I think we'll just... be going now," Pandora interjects. She's still got a hold on Tarquin, and the both of them have been steadily inching away from the conversation as it progresses. One of those kids, he's certain, is bleeding, but it doesn't look like anything serious. Too many stray elbows and fists, is all.

It's just making the progress go backwards, and it was already tumbling down the hill as is.

And Tate, much to his surprise, stays all grand and statuesque, retreating to his full height. He expects Pandora to shrink to the size of an ant when he turns his gaze on her - she's not far from that size as is. It's bigger than her, though. It's not really about her at all. When it comes to the five of them he finds she hasn't faltered at all, and that's something to really admire.

It's even more to consider, when he remembers the bullet her father got in the head for trying to do anything at all.

They file out in their little pack, the kids and the Quinn's, before the door slams shut behind them. A few of the security guards seem ready to move but get no orders to do so, and so it stays that way.

They walk. Not untouched, no, but they walk free.

For now, anyway. That's all he can see from Tate's end.

For now.

* * *

The subtitle for this chapter was, "I'm About To End This Man's Whole Career" and if this god forsaken website would let me use images a la ao3 it would've been sitting right here for everyone to see. Alas though, it cannot, and that fact has made me very sad.

And yes, I will continue to name chapters in which Tarquin Does That using Shakespeare quotes. No I do not take constructive criticism.

Until next time.


	47. Unearthing

XLIV: The Capitol - West Carthage Conference Building.

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16**  
 **Applicant #17**

* * *

She's not prepared for what happens the second they step free from the building.

Before there was no one there lurking in the back alley the same way they were - there was only that gaggle of reporters and security and their cars all the way at the front of the building. All of which hadn't noticed at the time.

Those people have multiplied seemingly out of thin air. There are a few spinning in circles at each end of the alley, now. It's clear almost instantly what it is that they're doing, random to anyone else but very purposeful when she knows what just happened. They're looking for something obvious. They're looking for _them_ , and someone alerts the whole crowd in a split second.

The few multiplies again, into dozens. Two people with cameras and microphones even come stumbling out of the building _after_ them even though she has no recollection of them being followed in the first place.

They're descended on like the vultures have found their latest kill, still fresh and steaming.

Suddenly, just like that, dozens is way too many to deal with it.

It becomes a crush on all sides, a cacophony of yelling and shoving bodies and too much going on to really process at all. She's stumbling every which way, focusing on nothing but the ground beneath her in an attempt to keep her feet flat on the ground, but it's not really working. Every time she seems steady someone intervenes a second later, catching her in the side or in her legs, threatening to sweep them out from underneath her.

It would all be an accident, too. No one is trying to hurt them, she doesn't think, but the crowd is too thick to really tell. There's so many shutters going off in her face, cameras every which way and more and more people appearing by the second.

Oh, they've done it alright.

Someone grabs her tight around the arm and yanks her to the side, out of the worst of the crowd. Her heart jumps into her throat; someone else grabs her too, or at least nudges her further in the direction they're already traveling. It doesn't feel like anything bad is happening, not yet.

There's another horrific burst of shouting, words and unanswered questions and absolute nonsense. Even the ground becomes a blur, then - she looks up, and it's Soran of all people who's got her by the arm. A few weeks ago that would have been more than slightly terrifying. Now she dives forward and grabs him with her other hand, too, because like hell she's getting lost in this. It doesn't even feel like anyone else is here, at least not anyone that matters.

She's all but allowing herself to get dragged out of the alley, but she has to trust his instincts right about now. That, and he's a solid foot taller than her. He can probably see an easier way out than she ever will.

The nudge from behind returns again, a little bit stronger, and she nearly trips off the sidewalk and into the road. _The road._ She still can hardly see anything at all through the mass of bodies but she hears it clear as day despite everything else. All she does is trust that she can accurately pinpoint the sound before she ducks under Soran's arm and throws herself headfirst into the backseat of a car. It's definitely not the one they arrived here in.

She slides across the backseat and then promptly falls into the footwell behind the passenger seat. You know what, that's good enough. She doesn't want to come out.

Soran nearly does the same thing but he manages to stay upright, at least, though he nearly corks her in the head with one foot.

A door ahead opens, and she flinches, trying to use the seat to bring herself back up a few inches. Pandora falls into the front seat almost as gracelessly as she just did, but at least she has the wheel to grab a hold. It's the only thing that keeps her from falling over. Her door slams shut, almost from the force of the crowd outside. Soran repeatedly slams his open palm down on the locks until he's satisfied that it's worked.

"Where's everyone else?" she manages. She starts to pull herself back up, inch by ridiculous inch; Soran hooks an arm under hers and drags her the rest of the way. She still isn't really properly sitting.

"Evander's got them," Pandora says. "I think."

"You think?" Soran asks.

"I can't exactly ask him."

"Well, what do you—"

"Call him, then!" Pandora says wildly, before he can even begin to say anything else. Her phone comes bouncing into the backseat, the second thing that nearly hits Ria in the head in just a few short minutes. "Why are you bleeding?"

She reaches a hand up to her own face, stupidly, even though she knows it's not her. Soran reaches across her, fumbling around for the lost phone. There's not very much of it, but his nose is definitely bleeding. It's just enough to remind her of the fact that she hates blood; she thought that she had gotten over that, maybe. The reappearance of it makes her want to dive out of the car.

Not quite, though. She looks up and there are cameras an inch away from every bit of exposed window, and all of the shutters are still going off. The shouting has quieted, somewhat. Not enough to comfort her.

For a second she's almost tempted to slink back down into the footwell. It would be fitting for her to act like a snake right about now.

Soran still hasn't answered Pandora's question, either. He's started with the phone, continuously fiddling with it and then bringing it up to his ear over and over again like he doesn't know what he's doing with it. He probably doesn't. Not even in Three did anyone have anything that fancy and upgraded, and they manufactured most of the damn things.

Pandora lays on the horn and she jumps a mile. A few people scatter but not nearly everyone. Getting out of here is going to be a different kind of hell than the one they just experienced. At least now no one's getting too close. No one can touch here in ear.

"Hey, hey, do you have them?" Soran starts. He's got the phone working - good for him. "No, this isn't Pandora, who the fuck do you think it is?"

The car begins a painful crawl. Even up until the last second people are refusing to move, bumping up against the hood and the side of the car regardless of whether it's really dangerous or not. She's not even so sure she likes cars anymore, not after everything. Cars, blood, the general state of everything else going on... what could possibly be next? The entire world?

Honestly, she's not putting it past herself to dislike that, anymore.

At this point all she can do is try to keep herself calm. She can't control what's going on outside, the camera and the reporters, what they just did. It's not as if she didn't want to come, she just knew it wasn't going to be her that did it. No, Tarquin saw to that pretty efficiently. It was commendable, really. He did it when nobody else could get through.

There's still so much noise; Soran talking on the phone, Pandora talking to no one at all, really, just muttering at every single person that gets a hair too close to getting run over. Everyone outside shouting, screaming, looking for answers and getting none in return.

And her, talking to herself, really. Repeating the little mantra over and over again in her head. _Stay calm, just stay calm._

She closes her eyes for a moment, folds her hands over her ears. Most of the sound fades away into almost nothing. It just feels like white noise, now, the easy rumbling of the car underneath her the only thing she can feel. She can ignore the bodies hitting the car now, tucked away inside. She can pretend they're not there.

It doesn't feel like it should work. Soran gives her a look in the time that she cracks open one eye and then closes it again. Things don't work for him the way they work for her.

He can't try to ignore it the same way.

That's the good bit to all of this, though. She shut down in the heat of things but he was the one that pulled her out, and now when she can see the stress and the anger pulling down on him she can choose to remain calm.

It's all she has going for her.

She used to be terrible at it too, is the thing. She could never calm down from anything before.

But now, with all the worst of the horror behind her, this doesn't seem so bad in comparison.

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17  
Applicant #13**

* * *

The Estate's gates are swarming with people.

All safely locked on the other side, thankfully, but as the hours go on the more convinced she gets that someone, a particularly ballsy one, will attempt climbing the stupid thing.

It's tall. Taller than fences have any right to be, really, but in this moment she's grateful for it's presence.

Getting back in and of itself had been a task, almost more difficult than any of the killing had ever been. She had wanted to kill someone, if she was being honest, any of the ones that kept getting in the way all the way back here, and even the guard at the front gate, who had looked at them with a tad more horror than he had before.

She's still not sure what Tarquin chose to announce about them on live television, and that's probably for the best. If he went off on a tangent about how many people they murdered that may not be the best thing that's ever happened to them.

It worked, though. No one's said it, but it worked. They beat the fucking President, for once.

So sue her, if you want, for being a smidgen satisfied. More than a smidgen, honestly, but she's not going to push her luck, or anyone's, anymore today.

She hasn't been able to tear herself very far away from one of the front windows. There's someone watching the grand front doors now; there never has been before. She's not sure if he's there to keep her from leaving, or to keep someone unlawful intruder from coming in. Probably both. One or both of Evander and Pandora comes by every so often. They're on the phone a lot, and she doesn't really want to know.

Crynn watches with her, sometimes. Sits, and then doesn't. He's gone now, though. Icarus is the only one currently sitting with her, but he's not so much staring out the window like she is that he's just observing the opposite wall with a very odd intensity.

Something happened, that's confirmed now. Whatever it was she doesn't know, but Soran disappeared the second they got back, bloody nose and jacket sleeve and all, and Icarus had stayed here. He had stared after him in a very obvious _oh, woe is me_ sort of way but the battle to stay had finally won out. For how closely he's been following him around since they got here it's sort of jarring.

It's nice to have company, though, even if he's the shit version of it. Regardless of the lack of conversation the presence of someone else being so close is enough to keep her from delving too far into her own head.

"How long are you going to stare at the wall for?" she asks.

"Haven't decided yet."

"How long do you think you can hold off going to look for him?"

"I'm not going to look for him. He's bled worse than that."

"I was there," she reminds him. "You don't have to make me re-hash it."

It was so much worse, too. A little blow to the nose is nothing, but even then...

"Trouble in paradise?" she asks. "Or like, trouble in hell? You guys don't seem very paradise-y."

Icarus gives her a very flat, unimpressed look. Well, it's true. He can try and deny it all he likes, but he knows it too. Not one of them that was out there was meant for paradise, not her and Arwen and certainly not the two of them. If that was the case any sign of anything good and hopeful for the future would have survived. Sure, Soran and Icarus _did_ , but that may not mean anything at all.

It definitely doesn't right now.

He's back to staring at the wall again, though she's not sure he ever really broke away from that for good. It doesn't appear that she's going to get anything else out for him. It's not like she's the pinnacle for relationship advice anyway, not with her track record. Lack thereof, really.

 _Especially_ when it's a relationship she still hasn't managed to wrap her head around.

No one understood her or Winnie, though. Maybe other people just aren't meant to.

Soran appears maybe twenty or so minutes later, face clean, new shirt on. It's not even bruised - lucky him.

"You're still here?" he asks, though he doesn't stop. It feels more like a drive-by than anything else, even if he isn't going at an impressive speed. Maybe the elbow to the face knocked him back down a few pegs.

"What else am I supposed to be doing?" she wonders. Icarus sighs and continues staring at the wall.

"Whatever you want, I guess. _Nothing_ would be included in that too."

Well, he certainly sounds like he's about to go do something. What she has no idea. She can't even think up anything clever to say back by the time he's gone, around the next corner. He didn't even glance once out the window.

How all of this doesn't bother him is beyond her.

That's how she personally felt before all of this. Largely unbothered. Icarus looks the exact same as before - just upwardly ticked of halfway dead inside, wondering if the plunge to fully was worth it. It was sort of funny when his priorities were being annoying and nosy, but it's not anymore. Everything's shifted and suddenly nothing is funny. If she started laughing right now there's a strong possibility that she'd never stop and that the sheer hysteria of it all would just outright kill her. She's not sure if death via laughter is a real thing, but it doesn't sound like the worst way to go.

It sounds peachy as opposed to a tree branch through the abdomen, really.

She glances out the window again. Still with all of the crowding. "Do you know what he's going to do?"

"Yeah."

She raises an eyebrow. He must be able to see it even from this angle, because he drops his eyes and then his head into his hands, rubbing furiously at his temples. It doesn't look like it helps.

"He wants to figure out who did this. With Pandora, I assume. And Evander too, probably, and God knows Crynn will get involved. But don't worry, because neither of us got an invite to that."

"Okay?"

"What do you mean, okay?"

"Is that what all of this is about? You had one little fight and now you're pissed at each other?"

"He can't just decide shit for me. And you didn't hear what else he said."

"I'm pretty glad I didn't, honestly," she admits, and he doesn't even have a reaction to that. His head is still in his hands. It'll probably be that way for a long while unless she does something.

She doesn't know when it became her job to do something, but apparently no one cares to take her out of it. She just wanted to come back and take a nap, really. That's all she wanted to do. That's what she _deserves._

Emmi stands up. "Alright, angsty, let's go."

"Pardon me?"

"You heard me. Let's go. So what he doesn't want help from any of us, that doesn't mean we can't start looking ourselves."

"We're not gonna have the help that he does."

"So what? We can still try. Or do you not want to admit the fact that digging scares you?"

He looks up at her, meeting her eyes for more than a few seconds this time. He looks like he needs a nap as much as she does. Maybe they should start with that, or maybe there's no time. Maybe they need every second awake as long as they can handle it.

"It's not the digging that scares me," he admits. "It's what we're going to find - it's what he's going to find."

"It may not be as bad as you're expecting."

"Or it could be worse."

True. He's got a point. He'd be slightly less annoying if he didn't have the tendency to always be annoyingly right about everything. And let's be real for a second here and say it probably is going to be worse, given their track record. Someone tried to kill them, and someone is likely still trying. Someone is taking collateral in the meantime like it's a fun hobby.

There's a difference now, between the before and now.

Now they can handle the worse.

Icarus sighs again and stands. "Fuck it. Let's go. Where are we going, exactly?"

"No idea."

"Awesome." He turns on his heel and begins to walk off, in the exact opposite direction that Soran went.

In the very least, she's grateful for that small amount of predictability, as she hurries after him.

* * *

 **Soran Faerber, 19  
Applicant #8**

* * *

Offices are not usually the size of an entire house.

Not that he has any definitive proof of that. He's never owned a house with an office. Never owned a house period. There was one in the Academy, but he never stepped foot in it. Too young, maybe. It was also one of the first areas to go up in flames when Caius Muric decided to burn it the fuck down, so it doesn't matter much.

He finds Pandora's office entirely by accident, opening every door he finds in his quest to get somewhere remotely useful. He has no idea where she is, or he'd ask her. He's done enough walking for today, and on top of everything now his face hurts as well, although it's a very dull pain in comparison to the kind he's gotten used to in the past few weeks.

It's not an office, no, it's an entire fucking library. She said the word, he heard it loud as day, but he didn't think she was serious. There are shelves stretching out in every direction nearly to the ceiling, creating new paths and alcoves everywhere he looks. The shelves are packed, too. Some are so full they look as if they're about to burst, the spines refusing to properly align along the fringes.

Books are a good start. There's a whole wealth of information to be found in them, he knows, but it doesn't help that he's certain he's never gotten through a book in his entire life. His reading comprehension is a firm 'iffy' on the relative scale - he'll blame it on that.

So maybe books aren't as good as he thinks. And it's not like there's a damn librarian around to point him in the right direction.

He picks one at random, finally, ambling off to the left and then up one of the new paths through the shelves. On and on they continue, occasionally producing a stray couch or pair of chairs tucked away into one of the corners, some of them well-worn. Despite how overwhelming it is he can see why people would spend time in here. The lights are warm and the windows sweep over the back garden, the rugs that line every little path probably the most expensive thing he's ever stepped on in his entire life.

It doesn't take him very long to find what he's looking for, a separate area half-partitioned off by a wall and a massive archway. There's a fireplace along the far wall, unlit. He's seen a few desks so far, smaller things. None like the one he can see now, dark and tall and overall just as stupidly big as everything else in here.

There's three monitors on the thing too, for fuck's sake. Who needs _three_ monitors _?_

He takes a seat behind the desk and nearly sinks all the way through the thing, he's convinced. It's ridiculous.

He fiddles with everything for an unnecessarily long amount of time and in it only manages to succeed in turning on the main monitor - the other two stay dark, and even the one in front of him now is showing him just how locked out he is.

Right, Pandora probably didn't get around to getting him access to this, or she did and it got shoved to the side in favor of what happened today.

In reality, he's got nothing else to do. Nowhere to go, no other purpose.

There a few drawers nudging up against his legs. He _really_ doesn't have anything better to do.

The first few he peeks through are embarrassingly empty. Even the desk itself is mostly barren. There's a holder for a few pens, a clipboard filled with blank papers, and, now that he takes a long look, a very respectable framed family photo that he very casually reaches up for and then puts face-down on the desk. Nothing to be seen here, folks.

He's rifling through what must be the sixth drawer so far when he hears the voice approaching, and there's certainly no door behind him. It's someone coming through the library, a voice he's come to associate with Pandora even after only a few days. At least she doesn't have the frantic edge to her voice that she did before.

He doesn't look up from his current drawer when he senses her stop in the archway. He can feel her eyes on him.

"Totally not snooping through your drawers," he says.

"Totally doesn't look like it."

He slams the drawer shut. More useless bullshit. She crosses over to him, gives him a look, and then rights the picture frame. He nearly reaches over to knock it down again, but it sort of feels like he's already been caught with his hand in the cookie jar anyway. He's probably tested his luck enough for today.

"Someone said they saw you come in here, I'm just gonna get you through the log-in security. I'll have someone get on giving the information to you, I've just been—"

"Distracted?"

"That's certainly a word for it. And I have this for you, too."

"What?" he asks. She skirts around him but still knocks into the chair regardless, pushing him a few inches away. She hands him the folder he hadn't even noticed tucked under her arm. It doesn't even feel like anything's in it. He can't really see what she's doing with the monitors and the keys, but it looks like it's going somewhere in the very least.

"The list you wanted," she says. "Alright, here you go. The navigation's not the easiest, but if you need help I can get someone to help you figure it out. I really need to go to damage control."

"Is that what we're calling it?"

"Unless you have a better term, yes."

He doesn't. He never does. He opens the folder - there's only two sheets of paper inside, stapled together. No matter how many times he flips them back and forth it doesn't look any less daunting.

"What, is this seriously fifty names? Sixty?"

"Just shy of seventy, actually," she says quietly. "It was more than I thought, but I was thorough. I didn't miss anyone."

"Fuck," he says, with more feeling than he's managed in the past few days. She nods almost solemnly, in agreement. "Your brother and Crynn aren't on here? Seriously?"

She stares at the top of his head with a worrying intensity for a long moment. He's surprised there isn't a hole in his head for her efforts. Yeah, he said what he said. He's not changing what he's calling it anytime soon.

"They knew vague details. Not the exact location, and neither of them had access to the type of knowledge that would have pointed the Sentinels to where you guys were," she explains. "Swear."

He believes her, even though he may not want to. She's already proven that she's not the lying type, and she _is_ on the list after all. He's mildly surprised to see it, but it's the first one there, clear as day. He only recognizes a handful of the names littered out beneath hers - the President, his wife, a handful of the Federation. He's not even sure who's who in regards to that.

"Alright, you go do your damage control," he insists. "I guess I'll... get started on this. Fuck."

He doesn't even know how to work her computers. It looks like someone from Three made the most complicated thing in the universe, combined it with the second most complicated, and then threw it at him.

"We can start tomorrow morning, the two of us. Are you going to get anyone to help you in the meantime?"

"Hard no."

She leans back against the desk for a moment, blocking his view of the main monitor. "Were you guys fighting this morning, when I walked up? You both looked upset."

"Does it matter?"

"I don't know," she says slowly. " _Does_ _it_?"

He gives her a flat look. "Can you not like, reverse psychology me? Or talk to me about feelings, ever?"

"Funny, I'm pretty sure Evander's said the same thing to me before."

"Oh, great, I'm really glad it's a reoccurring thing. Seriously, go, or whatever. I can handle it."

She doesn't look the least bit convinced by that, and definitely nowhere close to impressed, but she makes way for the exit.

"Try and get some sleep tonight."

"No promises," he calls after her. Once again she doesn't look the least bit impressed by that, but at least this time she leaves without putting up a fight. God knows one day it's going to come to a head and she'll probably smother him to get him to sleep. That would be one day to do it, and probably the only one right about now. He's accepted the fact that he's probably not sleeping tonight, and if he does it's going to be on whatever couch in the library looks the most comfortable.

Right now though, he needs to chip away at this stupid list. This stupid fucking _list_ and only one thing on it has caused all this in the first place.

With a sigh he takes one of the pens from it's holder and uncaps it, putting a line through Pandora's name and back again.

He has to start somewhere, after all.

It feels like the only remotely safe place to do so, even if he's unwilling to admit it aloud.

* * *

 **Tate Archeron, 35  
President of Panem; formerly of District Seven**

* * *

He doesn't think Gavin would be very proud of him now.

Gavin was never fully in his right mind, though. Gavin has also been dead for twenty years, now, so it probably doesn't matter.

Twenty fucking years, and he can still see his brother dying clear as day. The Two's got him, Cicely and Cicero - the twins, everyone called them, except Cicero got credited for the kill and Cicely wasn't too happy about that, turns out. It didn't matter to Tate who it came from - he got skewered either way. There was a lot of blood. More than he had ever seen in his fifteen years, and it just happened to be his brother's. It was fucking everywhere. Cicely walked out of the Games with some of it smeared on her pants. She probably didn't care as much as he did.

Scratch that, she _definitely_ didn't.

Gavin was good, fundamentally, at least to him. Not so much to everyone else. If he himself was good he would have volunteered and saved his brother's life, but he didn't. It didn't even cross his mind at the time.

If things had been different, he could be twenty years dead. Maybe Gavin could be President instead.

Probably not. Gavin wasn't exactly the Presidential type.

But then again, neither is he, these days.

Everyone still calls him one, is the thing. They parade him around and celebrate him and throw parties and galas in his name several times a week. Even at the worst of times he still felt like one.

Right now he's not so sure.

Behind him Sariah coughs two times over, and although the sound is muffled he nearly jumps. She hasn't made a single sound in the past half hour beyond the noise of her fingertips on her tablet. Looking at emails and news reports. Leighton went home nearly an hour ago, but it's not like they were talking to him anyway. They rarely did - that's why they were Cris' assistant and not his.

He should probably get on top of this; their desk is empty, after all. He wouldn't even have to go off to his own.

He just doesn't want to. He doesn't even know where the fuck to begin.

And what is he upset at, really? How badly this blew up, or how many people it seemed there were determined to do it? Someone told everyone at Rose Point, someone called in the Mervaine's. For a private event all of the information leaked at an usually high pace.

Nothing's trustworthy anymore.

"Sariah."

"Yes?"

"Is there anything I need to do?" he asks.

"Tomorrow, yes, but I think everything's quieting down for the night. As quiet as it can get with all of this going on. But it would be best to take a few interviews tomorrow, or make a public statement. I can write one up if you'd like."

"Can you?"

"Of course."

She's a good writer, that one. Leagues better than he is. She always makes him sound very poetic, which is odd for someone who doesn't even really understand poetry in the first place. She goes back to her tablet, and he goes back to staring at the few inches of floor between his feet. It's quite the ugly color if he's being honest. This whole mansion is ugly; he wouldn't live here if he didn't have to.

Ideally, he'd be back in Seven, but he doesn't feel safe there either. He hasn't since Gavin died.

There's nowhere he feels safe anymore.

"Can I ask you something?" Sariah questions.

"Go for it."

"I know you're planning on doing... something, with those kids. It's not my business. But can I ask why?"

"Why what?"

"I guess it's sort of hard to think of in terms of victors," she muses. "You know, having one per year. But the 160th, with the nine of them escaping, isn't it just like that? Just four less?"

"You could say that."

"So... why _are_ you planning on doing something with them, then? The nine are living free. No one ever went after them or punished them for it. I know that was quite thoroughly planned, but—"

"But that's the difference," he interrupts. "It was _planned_. This was instead someone's sick manipulation that no one could have saw coming except the person who executed it. And after today I've got nineteen families who have begun the quick realization that their kids _didn't_ die in a hovercraft accident. They were _murdered._ Brutally, I may add, butchered like cattle if the pictures and reports are to be believed."

Those pictures are something he's never going to unsee, nineteen corpses. Some are hardly recognizable. And he's supposed to return those very corpses to their respective families and do what? Nothing? It doesn't help that they're still missing one, that the two they found were so deep in the mountains he's surprised the search teams even found them. And there's another lie, too, another thing he's hidden. _He_ didn't believe Fallout Three's existence when he took the Presidency, so how is he supposed to explain it to the public when it inevitably gets out?

Because it will get out. Everything is getting out.

Sariah looks troubled, but she's kept her mouth shut. Leighton wouldn't be, and that's why they're employed under his wife and not him.

"Is it," she starts, slowly. "Is it because they're from the Capitol? Is that it?"

"I don't have hatred towards anyone just because they're from here."

"I know that," she insists. "I know that because you're married to one. It just seems suspect now of all times. We spent a hundred and sixty years subjected to the Capitol's whims and tortures and now that the position is reversed it feels an awful lot like vengeance. Unwarranted vengeance."

"Punishing murderers isn't unwarranted."

"If your brother had come out of the arena and the family of that girl he killed came after him, would you say that was unwarranted?"

"That's different."

"It's not," she insists. "It's murder all the same, and I've known you too long to believe that you really think that. I'll say it, okay - it's a shitshow out there. But how do you know this is going to help?"

"How do you know it won't?" he asks. Sariah's right in the respect that they've known each other too long, two suffering kids out of Seven and Nine doing God knows what in the Capitol, with jobs too big for their shoulders. But he wanted it, didn't he? He wanted it more than anything.

She still hasn't responded when he glances over his shoulder at her yet again. She's a thinker, she is, but it looks like she's run out of ideas this time. Usually it's him first.

He takes a deep breath. "I'd appreciate that statement by the morning, if you could. I'm going to bed."

Sariah doesn't move out of the way, so he has to skirt around her to head for the door. He feels like a ten year old that's been scolded by his mother and he's six years older than her, for crying out loud. How it's working that way is beyond him, but maybe it's because his own mother hasn't talked to him in years. After his father passed it was like she was willing herself to be prematurely buried between the two of them, out in Wolf Creek's cemetery. She had done that, and he had gone here.

It's beginning to feel more and more like he was the one that had made the mistake.

* * *

Only took me like two hours to realize that it was Saturday and I needed to update but hey, whatever.

Next Saturday's update will probably be at least slightly wonky upload time wise because I'm going to be Suffering, but never fear. We'll get there eventually.

Until next time.


	48. A Thing Called Revenge

XLV: The Capitol - Rose Point Estate.

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17  
Applicant #10**

* * *

He falls asleep face-down on Emmi's bedroom floor.

Surprisingly, it's not the worst sleep of his life. It's far from the best, though. His arms are both pillowed underneath his arm and completely numb from the elbow down. One of his legs is a little fuzzy too, but it's thankfully not the one that had a knife in it long ago, so it can't be the end of the world.

He wakes up a few times here and there to readjust but can't be bothered to move, and Emmi would probably have a fit if he tried to sleep in her bed no matter how close to the edge he stayed. Even the thought of that is enough to keep him on the floor. He's sore beyond belief when he finally wakes, for good this time. The room is a dim, foggy gray, and he stays face-down in the carpet where it's even darker while Emmi steps over him half a dozen times.

"What are you doing?" he mumbles into his arms, and for a second it feels way too reminiscent of yesterday. He shuts his mouth.

"Wondering why you're still on the floor," she responds. "Also trying to shower, but I keep forgetting shit and I don't exactly feel like parading around with you in here."

He wouldn't appreciate it either, so he comments no further. He didn't really have the energy to get up. He also didn't want to cry, and it felt like that was what he was going to do if someone left him alone too long.

That would be what, the second time Soran has indirectly or not put him in tears? He's not in the mood for that.

She stops busting about, eventually, and he hears the shower start two minutes later. He rolls over onto his back and hits the lamp closest to him, fumbling up for the cord, but gets nowhere close to it.

They didn't even really do anything last night besides talk in circles and get nowhere deep into the mystery of things. To be honest he didn't even think Emmi was going to talk as much as she did - he thought that was his thing, really. But she could talk. It didn't seem like she minded it.

And like he said, he really needed the distraction. There was also a chance that if he left last night he was running into Soran again, or that Soran was sleeping in what was rightfully Icarus' bed. He wasn't about to risk that.

He's a coward, alright? It's not a fucking crime.

Icarus nearly falls asleep waiting for her to get out of the bathroom, but is nudged awake however many minutes later. There's steam seeping out from under the door, and she kicks him none too gently in the leg.

"Is that my cue to leave?" he asks blearily. He hasn't really worked on being properly awake, and can hardly see her.

"Don't care. I was just checking that you were still alive."

"Unfortunately."

She hums. He blinks a few times to rid the crust from his eyes. "What's the plan for today?"

"I don't know. Are you going to follow me around all day or going to try and fix your weird ass relationship?"

"Hey," he huffed. "I'll do what I want."

"So that's a no, then."

"Shut up. You had a weird ass relationship too, you don't get to make fun of me for mine."

He waits for a response to that but doesn't get one. He rolls to the right but can't make her out entirely; she's blocked partially by the bed, and the rest of the way by the shit angle he has. It hurts his neck to keep it that way for very long.

Probably not the right thing to say. That's the problem with him, he says a lot but almost none of it was ever worth anything. He said dumb shit, or just caused it, and there was never any telling which one was worse. It was just all bad and there was no fixing it.

"Were you, you know," he starts. "Were you with her, when she—"

"Yeah."

That explains a lot, then. It explains the silence now, and why Emmi never, ever brings her up. He doesn't even know exactly who she killed if he's being honest - if she told them back in Witsonee he was too fogged over with pain to remember the information. The only thing he knew about her, really, because he never bothered talking to her before, was that her and Arwen were stuck closer together than most people.

And Emmi was there, when she died.

It doesn't matter what's going on in the here and now, because back then if Soran had died right in front of him he's not sure what he would have done. Let someone kill him, probably, or finish the job himself.

He definitely wouldn't have wanted to be alive.

"I'm sorry," he says eventually. That's not enough, but it's never going to be. She nods, tersely - he sees the sharp little head bob up and down but nothing else. She's stronger than she has any right to be. Certainly stronger than him.

"You know," he says immediately after, trying to push the train back onto the tracks. "You know, I could totally be a matchmaker. I'd be the best dressed wing-man in Panem history."

"If you could find one person in a thousand mile radius that wanted to date me right now, I'd fall over dead."

She actually sounds amused, now, which is better. It's not like he ever would, but the idea is sort of funny. Twisted and fucked up, but funny.

"I'm sure there's someone," he insists. "I could find _one._ "

"Spoiled for choice, I see."

"You said it, not me."

"Apparently," she says. "Are you coming, or not? I'm going to get breakfast."

"Yeah, yeah, just give me a minute," he says, but doesn't move an inch. The floor really isn't so bad. He did sleep in the desert for over a week and nearly die, after all. "You know, I'm pretty sure the Mervaine's brought their kids here with them - isn't their son our age? You could date him."

Emmi's sigh is so loud and exaggerated that it could've woken him up from a dead sleep. Someone out in the hall could've heard a noise like that.

"What?" he asks. "Not your type?"

"I don't even know him."

"So you can't say he's not your type."

"Oh my god," she moans. "Can we go? I'm going to leave you here."

She gets up with enough intent that he actually believes her, so Icarus springs to his feet, sways nearly across the entire room, and follows her out into the hall. It's sort of a ridiculous sight - she's freshly showered and in clean clothes and he just spent the night on her floor because he was too scared to go back into his own room and deal with his problems. It's only been a day, so he'll give himself that, but he's not sure he'll ever have or want the fortitude to deal with it. Not after what was said. He still feels the simmering anger at it all, too, and that's not going to help any.

He's not sure when it will get fixed, or if it ever will. All he knows is that it's definitely not happening today, so he's not going to push it.

"I'll make you a deal," she offers. "If you're going to give me unsolicited wing-man help for my non-existent relationship, then I get to be your relationship counselor."

"No?" he tries. She nudges him again, this time in the ribs, and stares at him.

He sighs. "Fine."

It's going to be one hell of a long day, or _days_ , now that he's agreed to that. It'll probably come back to bite him in the ass, too. But what can he say, really, or even argue? He's the one that wanted a distraction.

At least he's getting one.

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16  
Applicant #17**

* * *

There's someone knocking insistently at the door.

Even when she's not sleeping it still sort of feels like she is, oddly enough. It's always a thick fog, a stupor that she can't shake herself out of. It's like being lost in a mist, unable to see anything around her. It feels safer that way, not knowing what's going on around her.

Not sensible, not at all, but safer. She'll take safer over most other things.

She can't even think of anyone who would be knocking that could be enough to get her out of bed. Tarquin might, but he'd also come in eventually if he thought something was wrong. The other three wouldn't even bother. Pandora, Evander, Crynn... it could be one of them, maybe.

It pauses, finally, and she rolls over to stare at the door. Have they left, then? It took long enough.

Ria rolls out of bed and creeps silently to the door, accidentally dragging one of the blankets off with her. It's still tangled around her ankles when she opens the door and, oh—

Someone is definitely still standing there.

She only opened the door a sliver but it's enough to tell, and it's enough for the man to see her back. He offers her a pleasant smile. She nearly slams the door shut.

"Hello," he says. He doesn't sound inherently creepy, so that's good. "My name is Dr. Arranmore. I'm here to check up on you."

So _this_ is the doctor they're keeping on sight. Ria hasn't seen hide nor hair of him since they got here, and she doesn't think anyone else has either. If he was really, truly concerned it feels like he should've been around more. Maybe she wouldn't be so inclined to shut the door in his face now.

"I'm good," she says. He doesn't really even look like a doctor, but that's probably the point. Someone saw how they reacted at the hospital, to the doctor at Witsonee. It felt like they were aliens being examined by humans who didn't know what the hell to do now that they had finally found them.

"I wish it was that simple," he replies. "I'm under contract, and I have to ensure that you've all gained or or at least close to gaining a clean bill of health."

"Under contract with who?"

"Well, it was the Vice President who got in contact with me - I went to school with her, you see, when we were younger. Clearly she went the political route, but I went to med school. I'm glad she got into contact with me."

"And what do you do now?"

"I own a clinic down in the Lower Capitol. Family-based. I'm on-call at the local hospital, as well."

He looks about the appropriate age to be doing that, perhaps just shy of fifty or so. It could be deceiving for all she knows - she looks about twelve, on a good day. Anyone could be anything they want to be here and she wouldn't know the difference because no one would bother to be truthful about it.

He doesn't appear as if he's judging her for the full two minutes she's spent staring at him through the inch and a half crack in the door, though. Is it going to get any better than that?

Probably not.

Ria finally allows herself to open the door. He looks quite pleased with himself, maybe for the fortitude of it all. Several people have tried with her and given up long before two or three minutes have passed. She'll be honest; that's probably the smart thing to do.

"It won't take longer than a few minutes," he assures her. "If you'd just sit down..."

He trails off and goes rooting around in the bag dangling from his left hand before he drops it on the dresser by the door. She sits back down at the end of the bed while he continues rooting around in the bag, eventually pulling on a pair of latex gloves. Ria detaches the blanket from around her ankles and it's that action the doctor lasers in on.

"Besides the snake-bite, most of your other wounds were superficial, correct?"

"I guess so?"

Superficial seems like an odd word for riddled like a pincushion with glass, but that's apparently the word they're using. It's not like she got stabbed or skewered, she didn't get burnt. She definitely didn't die for a few long, worrying minutes.

Superficial it is.

"Have you noticed any long-lasting effects?"

"Like what?"

"Headache and migraine, tenderness, swelling, any sort of pain from the source of the wound?"

"It doesn't hurt, no." A lie, but not really. She gets the occasional twinge of pain, as if someone's poked her just this shy of too hard, but it doesn't really hurt. It's manageable.

And it's definitely not a big deal.

"Anything else, then? Or any other areas giving you trouble?"

"Not really. I guess I sort of have had a headache, once in a while, but I didn't think it was from that."

"What did you think it was from, then?"

"Not sleeping?" she guesses. "Or crying?

He hums. He's got her by the ankle now, too, and is examining the nearly identical holes in her skin like they're extremely fascinating. She'd kick him if it wasn't defined as rude.

"That could be it," he agrees. "But there can be long-term effects to envenoming. The studies didn't get particularly in-depth until the last fifty years or so. People often experience some of the symptoms I mentioned long after the initial incident. Some experience none. Usually the length of time between the incident and the first injection can tell a lot about that, but you seem to have recovered just fine."

"Is that weird?"

"Weird, no. Lots of people do, as I said. It's just better to be safe than sorry."

She nods. He's got a point, and she's not about to argue that. If any of them were really good at the whole safety thing she'd say he was right no doubt about it, but they still survived, safety be damned. If they had been safe they probably wouldn't have gotten as far as they did.

He lets her go, the chilliness of his fingers through the gloves beginning to dissipate.

"About the sleeping - is there anything I can do for that?"

She blinks a few times. Is there? He's not sure. She's never been a good sleeper, always up until some random time in the morning and running on a few hours sleep the next day. That's just how things were.

She's sleeping even less now, she feels. It's not by choice.

"I can prescribe something, if you feel it's necessary," he continues. "A small dosage that helps with relaxation and anxiety that you could take before you—"

"I'm good," she breaks in. "It's not necessary."

Is it bad that the idea of it even scares her? First just trusting him to give her something that will help instead of harm - she has no idea who he is, no idea if he has ulterior motives. And what if it doesn't work, or what if it cripples her? That's just what she needs added to all of this mess, a drug that she can't let go of when she one day needs to.

No one else is being offered this, she's certain. She's not about to be the only one.

"Well, if you change your mind, don't hesitate to ask," he offers. "Besides that, though, you check out fine to me. But if there's anything else I can do at a later date, I'll be here for a while yet."

It just feels like there's someone else here keeping tabs on them, making sure they don't run. Sure, she might have been the most intact in the days following, but she can guarantee that no one else wants a doctor watching their every move, deciding what they are and aren't capable of in their current states.

Not one of them.

He stares for a moment longer. She stares at the two circular scars at her ankle instead, but doesn't miss the awkward little wave he offers as he packs the bag up and departs.

Almost, anyway.

"Isperia?" he asks, pausing by the door. "Would you happen to know where any of your friends are? Tracking you down in a place this big isn't exactly an easy task."

She could find them all easily, in just a few minutes, with no pre-disposed knowledge of where they are, if they're awake, if they ever went to sleep in the first place. That's something Dr. Arranmore will never be able to know, medical knowledge or not.

She could find them, but she won't.

She smiles. "No, sorry."

* * *

 **Tarquin Vierra, 16  
Applicant #4**

* * *

"He's not so inclined to people," Tycho offers. Tarquin barely hears him.

Tarquin barely hears him because he's half-under the couch in the main sitting area, his breakfast abandoned on the table behind him. He hadn't even begun to sat down when he had heard the plaintive little noise, and Tycho had bent down to peer under the couch, seemingly not surprised at all.

Tycho who apparently feels inclined to follow them when they're wandering about alone, even if it is the ten to fifteen feet from the back kitchen door to the lounge room.

There's a little creature crouched in the darkest shadows underneath the couch. It's so fluffy it looks like a dust-bunny, and if it wasn't blinking at him every few seconds he'd think it was. He stretches his arm out even further and the probable-cat shrinks into an even smaller ball, every single gray-black hair bristling at the proximity.

"Stubborn bastard, he is," Tycho comments.

"Who's is he?"

"He belongs to the family, technically, but he usually stays put in the back cottage with Pandora and Crynn. Sometimes he goes roaming, though. He doesn't usually come this far in."

Tarquin would say he's cute, but he can't really tell. His eyes are huge and yellow, owlish in their intensity, pupils constricted all the way in.

"I'd get him out, but he hates me."

"Why?"

"Because I won't let him in the kitchen."

He smiles at the image of this fluffy behemoth running through all of Tycho's meal prep. It's easier to smile when no one can see him.

"I'm sure he doesn't hate you," he says, scooting back for a moment to break off a piece of bacon before he dives back under the couch. This time he at least gets some interest, and a nose stretched forward to sniff at his hands.

"You're supposed to be eating that."

"I'll eat the rest," he promises. The cat stretches forward, nose bumping against his fingers, and then he snatches the bacon from between Tarquin's fingers and gobbles the whole thing down without even stopping to breathe. Yeah, all his bacon is probably going to this cause this instead. His mom always insisted that they didn't really have time for pets, and that much was true. They were always out, always working, he was always at school or practicing.

He wonders if she'd be happy that he had this now, at least. The cat isn't his but it's as close as he'll probably ever get.

"What the hell are you doing?" Emmi interrupts, and he bangs his head off the underside of the couch. Even the cat jolts.

"Not eating his bacon," Tycho says. "And trying to make friends with Nyx."

"What the—"

It's not Emmi that appears on the floor next to him, but Icarus, flattening himself down to the ground to peer beneath the couch as well. The dust bunny known as Nyx is still bumping up against his hand, searching for more food, but looks less than pleased at Icarus' sudden arrival.

He grabs another piece of bacon and Nyx creeps just slightly closer, until he can stretch both hands out around him. He's smaller than Tarquin would have expected beneath all the fluff, and he pulls him forward until he can back up from beneath the couch, clutching the cat to his chest. In fact, now that he's holding him, he's tiny, and curls back up into a disgruntled little ball in the crook of Tarquin's elbow.

Tycho's gone when he looks around, and Emmi is drinking his orange juice. Icarus stretches a lone hand out and Nyx bats it away just as quick. He can't help but snort.

"Good luck, I spent fifteen minutes down there to get to this point."

He has a very grumpy little face - Tarquin sort of gets Tycho's point, at that. He's still cute, though, and isn't struggling away. It's a win in his book.

"You guys might— oh," Ria says, stepping around the corner. "Where did you get that?"

"Under the couch."

There's not a shred of hesitance in her when she steps forward and offers a hand forward, and then a single finger, waggling it back and forth. Nyx stretches forward over his arm to sniff at it and then retreats back into the safety of his arms, but at least he doesn't looks disgruntled about it, and concedes to Ria scratching between his ears for a few seconds.

"That's bullshit," Icarus decides. "I'm going to get food."

"Get me some!" Emmi yells after him, as if she hasn't already started on Tarquin's plate. It's a good thing he wasn't very hungry to begin with. Eating just sort of feels like it's required now. If he doesn't do it, people will look at him funny.

And they already are.

Ria stretches her arms out, expectantly, until he deposits Nyx into them. Instead of curling right back up the cat climbs halfway onto her shoulder and then rests there. It feels a lot like his watchful eyes are on Emmi shoving another piece of bacon in her mouth.

"You guys might want to hide," Ria says. "There's a doctor looking for you."

"I'm not sure how you managed to make that sound ominous, but you did," Emmi says. She chews all but a sliver of bacon and offers it to the cat, who just about bites her fingers off to get at it.

"Why?" he asks. His hands feel oddly empty now that he has nothing to do with them, so he steals his glass of juice back from Emmi, who gives him a dirty look.

"To make sure we're good, I guess? Physically, anyway."

"That's fine. I really don't want or need a shrink talking to me right now," Emmi says, and he's inclined to agree. He really doesn't want someone looking at him that closely, trying to pick him apart. There's enough ticking going on his brain, too many to pinpoint which one is going to make him go off.

Everyone save for Tycho, in fact, and the other four, are watching him with a rather peculiar look in their eyes. He can only imagine what's going through their heads, or what they're waiting for. Who knows what he'll say next, right? Who knows when he'll decide he's done crying and start talking, instead?

Even he doesn't have an answer for that. His brain can't decide on one direction anymore; sometimes it wants to break him down and tear him apart from the inside out, and sometimes it wants to fight.

It's fucked, as all. He doesn't need a professional, doctor or shrink or not, to tell him that.

If a doctor wants to look at him right now, then so be it.

They can't tell him anything he doesn't already know.

* * *

 **Crynn Sylvaine, 27  
Former Servicing Avox; District Eleven**

* * *

The funny this is, he had a brother like Soran, once.

It feels like a very long time ago because it _was_ , eleven years and counting since he last his brother and the rest of his family. He had known all along that his father was in shady dealings - there was no way the family would have lasted as long as they did otherwise.

His father wasn't there when the Peacekeepers came along, though. It was just him and Eider, his mother, his three younger sisters. Eider who had cracked one of their skulls open with the spade they kept outside the back door.

It was over pathetically quick, really. They shot him in the head, took Crynn and his mother. She died three years after they cut her tongue out, but he never found out why. He never found any records of what happened to his sisters, either, or if his father got somewhere worth living.

Don't get him wrong - he had looked. He had a year and a half looking and there was just... nothing.

That was part of the reason he went into law. That, and he just didn't know what the hell else to do, now that he wasn't the Capitol's prisoner. He had access to everything and nothing all at the same time.

He didn't like when bad things just happened, when people went missing, when the whole world was spiraling out of control.

It made it all the more infuriating that all of that was happening right now, before him.

Not one of the five was taking it well, and it was obvious. They were putting on brave faces. If he hadn't spent several long years doing the same thing he wouldn't be able to see it now.

Soran and Eider had similar brave faces, which was to say they just sort of always looked that way. You knew it wasn't that way underneath, but it was difficult to tell otherwise.

It made it easier to deny it, too.

Crynn can tell at a quick glance that he barely slept, if he did at all. He's not one to judge in that department; it took him years to sleep through the night in any sort of peaceful way. He looks harried in a mad scientist sort of way except he's not doing anything except walking around with the list and a pen stuck in his mouth, muttering to himself and occasionally stopping at the computer to look something up.

So it's not very mad science at all, really.

He was talking to Pandora occasionally before she went to go get breakfast, but for the most part they've been sticking to the individual approach in their research.

That's probably how it's going to go for the most part.

He's walking around so much that it's making Crynn tired, though, and he has no voice to tell him to stop, so he just allows it. It's not like Soran would respond well to him writing it down.

It's Soran that stops in front of him however many minutes later, waving the list in front of him. He stares at it.

"How many of these people do you actually know?" he asks, drawing a line from the first name, Pandora's, and then twelve down. The New Haven Federation.

He shrugs. Most of them not very well. He's spoken to Kestrel, Jordan and Waylon the most. Solidarity in their twenties, he thinks. Kestrel is nice. Waylon's nice in a weird way. Jordan sort of scares him, if he's being honest. Besides that he's only ever spoken to Eriska, who treats him well enough, and Wendell, who tells him stories he suspects because he can't tell him to stop.

So none of them, really. He doesn't know anything personal. Nothing that matters.

"Who voted yes, besides Pandora?"

He takes the paper and pen from him and ticks off the six other names. Soran takes it back and examines it; it doesn't look like it helps any.

"Do you think it's too ridiculous to cross off the names of the people who voted no? I mean, if they voted no and it had went through that way, that sort of would have defeated their purpose, right? Or is that just me not accounting for someone being an asshole and doing that on purpose?"

Again, he shrugs. He's the type to believe the best in people, so he'd like to think it was none of them. The thought that someone directly organized this from the very beginning makes him ill.

Besides, all of them but Ophira and Eriska have children, excluding the younger ones. Wendell has approximately seventy-five grand-children, judging by the stories he's heard. Would someone like that willingly send more kids to their deaths, so long after they stopped the Games?

Maybe.

He tugs the paper back and taps a finger against Leopold's name, raising an eyebrow. Soran sighs.

"What, you think cause his kid died in the Games he'd send twenty-four of _us_ to our deaths for kicks? You could say the same thing about the President and his brother, then."

He shrugs, _again_ , and then tells himself to stop for good. Beyond Leopold he can't see someone with a good enough reason for it.

"Fuck," Soran emphasizes. "This is going to take fucking forever."

He hums in agreement. Soran returns to the corner but not before putting a half-assed star to the right of Leopold's name. He sits down so hard in the chair he skids five feet away from the desk before he manages to pull himself back.

Crynn's not even sure at this point what he's looking up. If he's finding something, that's good, but Crynn's not sure he is.

"Here," Pandora offers, dangling a coffee over his shoulder. She puts something else on his lap, a wrapped plate, and then drops a similarly wrapped sandwich right in the middle of Soran's papers. " _Eat."_

"I'll consider it."

He looks at her. "He's going to burn out eventually. You need to make him sleep," he signs.

"What do you want me to do?" she signs back. "I can't make him."

"Put something in his sandwich next time?"

Her lips quirk up, which means it won't happen, but at least it made her smile. She hasn't been doing much of that lately.

Soran looks between them, rolling his eyes. "You know, the next time I'm alone I'm going to start teaching myself sign language so you two and Evander can't talk about me while I'm sitting right in front of you."

He's not so sure how _that_ would end either, but it might be sort of amusing to see. Besides, Crynn feels like he has some sort of obligation to watch him and make sure he doesn't drop dead - signing pretty much _is_ his only way of communicating without Soran knowing.

In fact, it's the only way.

"Please eat," Pandora begs, plastering a smile on her face, and he finally obliges. He doesn't quit whatever it is he's doing, but Crynn can live with him multi-tasking.

Apparently that's the best they're going to get, for now. His obligation can accept that.

* * *

In my update delay I also conveniently forgot I had to edit this bad boy as well, so apologies for the further delay slash likely piss poor editing job.

Until next time.


	49. Burn Them All

XLVI: The Capitol - Rose Point Estate.

* * *

 **Soran Faerber, 19**  
 **Applicant #8**

* * *

As stereotypical as it sounds, he has zero concept of time stuck in here.

There are a few windows in the library but he rarely wanders that far. There's not that much useful in the stacks for this particular endeavor, that's what the computer is for, and so he doesn't feel the need. There's enough space here to spin in circles and not fucking get anything as is.

Crynn was in here watching him, and left. Evander came in, picked up the post, and has since left. Only Pandora is still here, and he's beginning to suspect that she's fallen asleep. It's impossible work, trying to figure this out. He's surprised she didn't fall out of it sooner.

He's exhausted, too. All of his limbs feel like lead. He really ought to sleep, but he doesn't want to, not even to escape the headache lingering behind his eyes. Every blink hurts. He hasn't felt like a seriously viable human being since they got out of here - the brief death part of it all probably helps with that. He wants to, though. He wants to sleep easy and not feel very single sick pound of his heart in his chest.

It'd be easier to do this if he wasn't dealing with all of _that._

It's too much for one person; he knows it, and he also doesn't care.

He doesn't care what anyone else thinks, either. This is the better way. There's less risk in him doing this than any of the others. Bringing any of them into this feels like stepping onto a path that ends with one, or several of them, very much dead.

Pandora turns to her side on the chaise lounge and the pen that had been resting on her chest clatters to the floor. Only then does she seem to notice just how out of it she was, and she scoops it up quicker than it even fell.

"You don't have to sit in here with me, you know," he tells her. "You can go to sleep."

"It's not even that late."

"Well, clearly you're tired."

"Been tired a lot lately," she murmurs. She looks as tired as he thinks he feels, but even those feelings are hard to pin-point. He's got a lot going on. So does she, evidently; the eyes that she turns to the ceiling are deeply troubled, before she turns them to him.

"What?" he asks. "Did you want me to ask you why you're so tired?"

"No. Sorry."

She definitely did. He stares for a moment longer, but she goes back to focusing on the ceiling. There sure isn't much interesting up there, not that he can tell, anyway.

He sighs. "Why are you so tired?"

"From all of this, I guess," she says instantly, rolling the pen anxiously between her fingers. She still looks troubled. "And I think — I think I might be pregnant? I'm not sure."

He blinks a few times, and then a few more. "What?"

"What do you mean, what?"

"Did you just," he starts, and then waves his hands around as if that will get the point across. It doesn't. "You can't just say shit like that so casually, and what do you mean you _think_? Do you not actually know?"

"No."

" _Why not_?"

"Because I haven't gone to the doctor, or taken a test? I don't know! I just realized a few days ago, I'm still trying to process it."

"Wait, am I the only one that knows?"

She turns her head back to him. He puts his own in his hands.

" _Why_ did you tell me _first?"_ he groans into them.

"Because you asked!"

"I didn't really want to!" he insists. "Jesus. Fuck."

"I mean, I'm not sure, if that helps," she offers up. It doesn't help, if he's being honest. He doesn't want to be saddled with this information. "I've just been extra tired and sick, sort of. Nauseous but I haven't thrown up. Should I have?"

"Why are you looking at me like I'm a baby doctor?" he asks. And why is he saying the word why so much like he can't understand it either. "Seriously, can you tell Crynn, or something? I don't want to be the only one that knows."

"But what if I'm not? Then I'll just get his hopes up."

"Find out first then, for fuck's sake. It's not that hard."

Pandora sits up, setting both her papers and the lone pen in her hand down on the chaise's side table. That doesn't stop her from fidgeting any - now he's stuck watching her leg bounce up and down too many times in too few seconds. Any more and it's going to detach at the hip, and that won't help anything that's currently going on. He already feels the same way - fidgety, anxious, stressed without any exact thing to pinpoint it on. He's not sure he can handle the amount that's radiating from her on top of that.

"What are you so scared of?" he asks. "You know, besides the whole giving birth thing? Whatever happened to Evander - is that bullshit genetic, or something?"

"There's an inheritable condition that's been known to increase the chances of it, but for the most part it's spontaneous."

"Spontaneous?"

"Yeah, like he was mostly fine and then got a bad case of vertigo while he was in army training. They didn't even take him to the hospital - they took him to a clinic and did a scan. You know, they called my mom and told her over the phone that they found signs of _two_ brain tumors?"

"That's not very nice." Not even to their apparent witch of a mother. No one deserves that, not really.

"Yeah. Benign, of course, but they still completely fucked his hearing."

"Well, the bright side of that is your kid _probably_ won't get that," he says. "Probably."

She puts her head in her hands; it's a good thing he finally took his own out. "This is terrible. This is such bad timing."

Well, he's not going to argue her on that point, and you couldn't pay him to. It's one more thing piled on top of the rapidly growing heap that is their current life. And now he's thinking of it as a joint thing, which makes it even worse.

"Did you not want kids?"

"No, I did, I just... shit."

"Yep," he agrees. "It's still not a for sure thing though, so..."

"Right," she agrees, and gets to her feet. It looks like she's dangerously close to crying, and she even sniffles as if to prove a point. If she starts crying on him he might just die. "Right, I should probably go check for real."

"You should, yeah."

"Okay. Okay, I'm going. Are you going to stay here for a while?"

He nods. She nods, too, but she still looks as if she could go spinning in circles. He sort of feels that way too, but he won't admit it.

"Can you at least try to sleep tonight?" she asks. "Please?"

Soran did try last night, is the thing. He tried for several hours. Every time he closed his eyes his mind just started to race with every single little thing he could be doing instead, picturing every name on that list and trying to envision which one was the worst of them all.

He tried, but he doesn't tell her that. He just nods once again, and she seems to take that alright. She smiles at him, although it looks forced, but at least it makes her look slightly less distraught. He gets it, he really does. It's the definition of bad fucking timing.

But chances are it's happening. He knows that even after she leaves; she wouldn't have breathed a word of it if she thought there was a possibility that she was wrong.

She'll have to figure that out on her own, though. He still has work to do.

He puts his head down and gets back to it.

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17  
Applicant #13**

* * *

"Okay," she starts. "Okay, so this is what we're going to do. Everyone listening?"

Icarus nods. Tarquin stares at her, completely blank-faced. Ria gives her what she would consider a slightly cheeky little thumbs-up if Nyx didn't bat her hand down instantly and then latch onto her fingers with his nibbling little mouth.

So, the cat likes her best. For some reason Emmi isn't surprised by that in the slightest.

She scoops up the tablet she lifted from downstairs, the one that she's increasingly sure belongs to Tycho. He had been looking at her when she had made several apparently not very careful side-steps towards it on the kitchen counter, but he hadn't said anything. Or done anything, for that matter, because she was up here with it and he hadn't come looking for it.

He won't miss it for a few hours, she's hoping. And hopefully if he does he just decides to give her a break.

"I think the best place to start would be finding out just exactly who was hunting us," she says. "We know Carnelia, obviously, but there were nine others. If we can find a connection to them that could lead us to someone else."

"And how do we do that, exactly?"

"Well, the government released a full compilation of everyone in that facility from the time the Sentinels started to when they ended it. Names, pictures, ages, District of origin... you know, shit like that. There's got to be like, thousands of them, but if we can find them..."

She trails off - the others already look like they're settled in on the idea.

Ria looks down at the file folder she's pulled up on the tablet. Tycho's going to have some weird things on here, after today. "Do you think the government identified the bodies already?"

"Probably. Why?"

"They didn't release that information, did they? That might make it easier."

"I don't think so," she hums. "But we could look into that too."

"Alright, I'm going to go look for another one of those," Icarus announces, gesturing to the tablet. "No way I'm crowding around one with three of you all day. I'll see if they've released anything, you get started on that file."

"You're missing out on all the fun," she sings, getting an eye-roll in response for her efforts. It makes sense, though, to be at least splitting this up. They don't need four sets of eyes looking at the same pages all day long. It really is hundreds of them, too - they've got numerous people with less information shoved onto single pages, but it's still an almost unbearable amount of information.

He departs, and Tarquin drapes himself over the chair he's sitting on to look over her shoulder. Ria inches closer and props her head up on her knees, using her fingers to zoom alongside the left side of the screen, where the photos are. That's really all that matters. Who knows how old some of these photos even are, too. They could be unrecognizable to the people that hunted them. Emmi is just hoping that someone, somewhere, chooses to give them a break for once and allows this to be somewhat easy.

She's not overly hopeful, but she's trying to be.

There's no rhyme or reason to it, though. They scroll through the first few faces and some of them are marked deceased from fifty years ago, while some were alive until the Capitol bombings only fourteen ago. Older people, younger people. She can't help but think of how many people saw these images and saw someone they knew - a spouse, a sibling, a child.

All the way from the Snow Era after the 75th all the way to the 155th... every year the Capitol killed twenty-three kids and killed even more of them where no one could see.

It's no wonder everyone hates them so much.

Every once in a while one of them will pause and scroll back up almost hesitantly, as if dreading the recognition they're all waiting for. It could've been someone they killed, at least in the case of herself and Ria. Tarquin's the only one who doesn't look nervous about the whole thing, but he keeps glancing at the two of them as if they're smoking bombs waiting to explode.

"Hold on," Tarquin says at long last. His voice nearly makes her drop the tablet in the otherwise quiet room. "Just one up. Isn't that—?"

He looks at her, then, eyebrows slightly raised. She scrolls back up and stares at the grainy image of the woman before her now. It hardly even looks like her - her hair is a smidgen lighter, her face much younger and fuller. Emmi tries to compare that face with the woman who's face she utterly _ruined_ when she killed her. At first it doesn't look impossible, but the longer she stares...

It has to be here.

"Flora Benson, District Seven, would be thirty-five," she says quietly. "Can you write that down?"

It also says deceased during the year of the 155th, which wasn't obviously true, but the Capitol never cared who their lies hurt.

Ria obliges, scribbling the name and the rest of the information down for her. She can't stop staring at her face, a younger and much more innocent her before the Sentinels ultimately broke her and before Carnelia Trevall finished the job. It was Tarquin that recognized her, too, not Emmi. If he hadn't spoken up she never would have believed.

She'd like to believe it was the pain of the moment and that there's nothing else to it, but it's not quite that. In reality she's already beginning to erase the face of the dead from her mind, most importantly the ones that wound up dead because of her. It's almost like that will make it easier.

And it sort of has been, which is beyond fucked up.

"Alright, guys, hold on," Icarus insists. He's got something that looks suspiciously like a phone in his hands - she doesn't even want to ask where he stole it from or who's about to come looking for it. He kicks the door shut and then locks it, flopping onto the bed next to Tarquin and nearly sending him onto the floor. "Look at this shit - they've only released one report, on Carnelia and _her._ It doesn't even look like it's been widely circulated."

It's the other woman, the one that looked the most important save for the named big bad. The one that had the great misfortune of being manhandled and dragged out of the car when she let Soran get too close.

"Oh, sweet," she says. "What's her name?"

" _Khia Rhodelle_."

He says it in such a way that it feels like she's meant to understand something deeper. She rolls her head back until she can catch sight of him and he shoves the phone in her face, a half-inch away from her nose. The picture is definitely vaguely familiar.

"Okay?" she tries. "That's good?"

"Does that not sound familiar to you?"

"Should it?"

"Rhodelle," he repeats, and then brings the phone back to type something else in. "For God's sake - look at this."

It's a new page entirely this time, though he shoves it just as close to her face as before. She tugs it out of his hand to get a better look, this time at another woman. This one is even more familiar.

"That's Kestrel Rhodelle," he continues. "She's a fucking member of New Haven. Both from Twelve, seven years apart if all of this is accurate."

"So cousins, maybe? Ria asks.

"Or worse," Icarus says. "Siblings."

"Fucking hell," she mutters. "Write that down, god, write that down right now."

Ria scrambles for the paper and misses all of the lines entirely as she jots the information down. Cousins, or worse, siblings. Seven years apart. Coincidences like that just don't happen, and that could be why it's not widely released. If you went looking, sure... but how many people really will?

This could be their inside man. And Soran murdered the fuck out of her possible-sister not very long ago.

That's more terrible than even she expected.

"So what do we do?" Tarquin asks. "Who do we tell?

"Is there anyone we can legitimately trust?" Icarus wonders. "And by trust I mean to actually do something, not just run to the President or the nearest Peacekeeper. They're not on our side."

Not really, no. Pandora and Evander aren't the same thing. She wouldn't expect them to do anything that could potentially be this dangerous. Sure, it may just be nothing. Maybe Kestrel isn't tied into this the way Emmi already believes; if she is, though, and she's already spoiling for a fight, then Emmi doesn't doubt she'll do whatever it takes to beat back against them. She's already tried enough - murdered their parents or gotten someone to do it for her, tried to make their lives a living hell.

And it's working.

"So we do it ourselves, then," she says.

"Do what? We can't leave the Estate."

"Not yet," she says slowly. "Not yet."

Everything is always a matter of time. They need to find the rest of these names, just in case. They need to come up with a plan, no matter how long it takes, and they need to execute it. They need to get out there and do something.

Emmi hasn't decided what the _something_ is yet, but she'll cross that bridge when she comes to it.

Or burn it, first.

Whatever seems like the better option.

* * *

 **Tarquin Vierra, 16  
Applicant #4**

* * *

He sits there until they hit five.

Six, really, because they had Carnelia all along, but five just feels more poetic. Poetry has always felt like a safe thing to him, a comfort. He was never very good at it, but he still liked it.

So they were at five new ones, now - Khia, Flora, one other woman, and two men. They were just about halfway through the files, but he hadn't been actively paying attention for the last twenty or thirty pages. It's hard to look at all of these faces and imagine what happened to them. A lot of them, he knows, died in the bombs the Capitol dropped on them after the 155th. Up in flames just like Fallout Three.

And the few that survived ended up here, only to die anyway. It hurts for some reason to think of the four of them out there against whatever remaining Sentinels still hunted them while he did... nothing, really.

He knows it's not nothing, and it's silly to call it that. But that's what it feels like.

"Does anyone mind if I go to sleep?" he asks. Emmi and Icarus give him near identical thumbs-up and he almost smiles at their similarity - almost. He's already gotten half-shoved out of the way so that Icarus can better look over his shoulder, but it's like he said, he wasn't really paying that much attention lately anyway.

Ria looks at him for a second, though. "Tired?"

He nods. He is, don't get him wrong, but it's a weirder feeling than before. He's scared to try and go to sleep.

That's probably not very good for his mental health.

"Do you want him?" she asks, gesturing to the lump of fur in her lap. Nyx has hardly left her side since Tarquin found him under the couch, but it kind of fits. And it made her smile, so he's good with that.

The cat is fast asleep, and he feels a twinge of guilt at the thought of even taking him away from her. It's Ria that slides her arms underneath him and holds him up, stretching until she can safely transfer him to Tarquin's arms. He's as warm as a space heater, purring faintly still, and hardly even wakes when Tarquin hauls him up to cradle him against his chest.

He's a very strange little creature. A strange creature for even stranger people.

"Night," he says quietly, stepping over both her legs and Emmi's as he heads for the doors. It's echoed back three times over, in various volumes. He's not even sure that it is night, and it probably isn't judging by the light filtering in under the bedroom curtain. It's even slighter brighter out in the hall. The sun has just sunk below the horizon; it's not even close to a time when he would go to sleep normally, not unless he had something big the next day.

He's not sure why he feels the urge to try now, when the thought of closing his eyes makes him want to throw up. How old is he, to be scared to fall asleep? He feels like he's afraid of the dark now, too, of whatever could come out of it. There was so much darkness down there it threatened to swallow him whole.

Maybe trying to sleep while there's still a faint amount of light left will help. Maybe.

He treks the short way to his room and deposits Nyx at the end of the bed - the cat takes in his new surroundings and then marches up to his unused pillow on the left side and then plops down on it. It's a good thing he didn't favor that one, or anything. He wouldn't have the heart to take it back.

After how much time he spent alone you'd think he was used to that, too, but now he just hates it more than ever. He hears every creak of the house, every sound of someone outside the door, passing by harmlessly. Not one of them is walking past with the intent to hurt him and yet his brain tricks him into believing it every single time; he waits for the moment the door will open, when someone will come in and do something.

And it never happens. He wish he could stop thinking it.

He doesn't think anyone would protest if he asked to sleep in their spare chair, or on their floor. He's not even sure that would help, he's just not sure what else would at this point.

When he lays down he feels pulled too tight, not relaxed in the slightest. He curls up as tight as he can manage and then pulls one of the blankets over him all the way up to his chin, facing the window, all the light that's left. He feels Nyx stretch out and then a second later a paw bops him in the back of the head, claws catching in the end's of his hair before he retracts them once again. He's so close he can still hear him purring.

"Why can't I sleep as easy as you?" he asks. Unsurprisingly, Nyx doesn't answer.

He could talk to someone, too. No one would fault him for it. Maybe the doctor, but he never found him even after Ria's warning. He's not sure that's the answer anyway.

Maybe he should open the curtains all the way, at least until it gets dark. Maybe he just needs more light.

Tarquin gets up and throws the curtains open before he settles back down in bed. The room floods with warm, leftover light. Now the room just looks bathed in fire instead of the darkness, and he's not sure that's better.

There's not a winning scenario in this for him, not when he can't close his eyes without seeing all of the horror.

He rolls over. Nyx's head is a mere inch from his, now, and his yellow eyes are wide open, unblinking.

"You too, huh?"

He makes a funny little chirping nose and then, after what looks like a moment's consideration, gets up. Tarquin forces himself still while he climbs ever closer and then up onto the flat of his chest. That's where he chooses to settle of all places, plopping down just above his stomach. He reaches a hand up to scratch under his chin - Nyx's eyes narrow into content little slits, and then close entirely.

Nevermind what he said. The cat's sleeping better than him, no surprise there.

He doesn't even know why he bothered trying to sleep, when he knows it's not going to happen.

There's no use in deluding himself any further.

* * *

 **Pandora Quinn, 29  
Member of the New Haven Federation**

* * *

She wasn't wrong.

She knew it all along, but seeing it confirmed... she definitely wasn't wrong.

That makes things infinitely more complicated.

She wasn't lying to Soran - she did want kids. Maybe. One day. When things were settled and her mother could possibly stand the sight of Crynn's face without actively trying to avoid him. Crynn had always wanted them, that she knew. When the world was better, when they were safer - that's what they had been working towards.

They blew that right out of the water, clearly.

She heads back to the cottage just shy of nine in the evening. She's certain that's where Crynn's gone - there's nowhere else the two of them would go this late. The only issue is it appears as if Evander went with him, or at least wandered out back not long after. Maybe it's not so bad, though? This could be just killing two birds with one stone.

If she can even get the words out without throwing up.

It was different with Soran. She hadn't really expected him to care for more than a few seconds before he went back to his research; that was the priority, not her possibly untrue worries. She hadn't even though before she had said it, it had just come out. And he _had_ looked like he cared, at least incrementally so, and incrementally was more than she thought he would. If he hadn't gotten on her case she might have managed to avoid telling anyone else for a few days, until she could work up the nerve to do it properly.

She was just going to do it. March through the front door and say it. Possibly throw up, after, through nerves or nausea. She's not sure which.

She opens the front door. Evander's shoes are tucked just to the right of it. Okay, that's a good thing, she reminds herself. He's nowhere in sight, though. Crynn turns to her, lounged across the love-seat, and smiles. Normally that would make her feel better, but it has almost no effect now. She still sits down next to him on the inch or so left of the couch at the edge and he curls an arm around her waist like he does nearly any other time to hold her there.

Evander appears down the hallway and shuts the bathroom door behind him, wiping his hands down on his pants. "Is it my turn for babysitting duty?"

"No. He's fine."

"You sure? I don't care."

"I'm just hoping he'll go to sleep if we leave him alone. Besides, I need you to stay here for a minute."

He perches at the end of the and looks down at her, expectantly. Right, he probably doesn't have all night. She knows him, and regardless of what she's telling him he's probably going to wind up popping in the library at least once. That's just who he is. He stares, and she tries to rack her brain for something that sounds at least mildly intelligent.

"Uh," she says. Off to a great start. "I'm not really sure how to say this, so I'm sorry if it comes off, uh, weird? Or wrong. I'm not sure."

"Are you okay?" Evander asks.

"Yes, but no, too. I think. I'm kind of freaking out so I'd appreciate if neither of you did, though I know that's asking a lot, and I'm aware that it's seriously bad timing, but—"

"God help us," Evander mutters. At least he only sounds slightly exasperated at her rambling.

"I'm pregnant," she announces. Crynn sits up so fast he nearly knocks her off the couch, though his arm is still wrapped safely around her, keeping her in place. Evander's staring gets worse by the second as his eyes widen, to the point where she worries that they're about to fall out and roll under the couch. It's awfully dusty under there.

"You're serious?" Evander asks. "Oh my god, you're serious. Wait, is this bad? You don't look happy, are you not happy?"

"Of course I'm happy!" she insists. Her eyes watering may have something to do with how hard Crynn is squeezing her. So he's happy too, evidently. "I'm just stressed, okay. It's bad timing."

"Who _cares_? Everyone else will just have to deal with it."

"And me, considering it's mine."

"It's his, too," Evander points out. She can't see Crynn's face because he's still tucked behind her, face pressed to the side of her neck, but she can feel just how huge is smile is, and something in her eases at that. "And c'mon, look at me. Best Uncle Material ever, am I right?"

"Guess we'll have to see."

He swats at her, but at least he looks amused. Sure, she's the older sibling and she's always taken care of him through everything, but he's taken care of her too. She has no doubt that he'll continue to do so through all of this no matter how difficult it gets. And Crynn is here too, he's been here for so long now. He's not going to leave now just because things get slightly more difficult.

Maybe that's the type of situation they were born to thrive in, anyway. It's been leaning that way for a long time.

"Can I please tell mom?" Evander asks suddenly. "Oh, please let me tell her. I want to see the look on her face."

"You are not telling her," she laughs. Even the thought of having to tell her mother is horrific and here she is laughing about it. She'd probably start crying for real if she didn't laugh about it. There's a strong chance she'll make Evander come with her if only so she has some real back-up. It's always felt like it was the two of them against the world, but now there's more than that. She has so much more.

And in a day not so far from now, that will only grow.

It doesn't seem quite so terrifying when she thinks of it that way.

* * *

My other filed under: Evander option was just bonking him in the head during army training, which apparently wasn't enough, so he got bilateral acoustic neuromas instead. Thanks for that, google. I'm sure he's happy and thankful for it too.

But hey, with this chapter I've officially passed the big fat one million words on this account. Kill me, I guess. Please

Until next time.


	50. Endgame

XLVII: The Capitol - Rose Point Estate.

* * *

 **Soran Faerber, 19  
Applicant #8**

* * *

Sleep doesn't happen.

Don't get it twisted, though - he tries. Man, does he try. He's tried harder than he's tried for anything else in the past year, at least, including surviving. He doesn't leave the library but he really hasn't for a while. No point now. He finds a small, if not slightly uncomfortable, couch tucked away in one of the corners near an old, unused fireplace.

He's not entirely sure how long he lays there. It feels like an eternity but he knows it can't be nearly that long - the light outside the window doesn't change in the slightest, and the moon hasn't even moved an inch.

Pandora's been harping on him for days now since she dropped the pregnancy bomb on him. Sleep, sleep, and more sleep. She probably needs more sleep than him, he wants to say, since she's the one with another person inside her. In the very least she needs to relax and stop getting on his case about every single thing that exists in the goddamn universe.

There's no relaxing him in now. It's just the list of names spinning through his name, from the beginning and all the way to the end. Even the ones he's crossed out are still there, flickering faintly in the back of everything else, trying to make him doubt it. What if he doesn't actually know? What if he was wrong? What if there's no point to this in the long run because they're fucked anyway?

They probably are. He's not sure what denying it is going to do.

And it's not like he's ever been a particularly optimistic type of person, so he's not sure why he's clinging to the hope that this might actually end well. Because he wants to believe it for everyone else, for Pandora and Evander and everyone else who believes in the possibility of a happy ending?

He can only sit there for so long before he _has_ to get up. His body is too jittery to do anything else; it's been that way for days. He can't remember what being still feels like. That memory can only be associated with his briefly dead body, and it's not like he has the pleasure of remembering that one. He almost wishes he did, and you don't have to tell him just how fucked up that is. He knows.

Getting up results in pacing. He's been doing that a lot, too. He leaves the little tucked away office and heads down the main corridor through the stacks and then threads his way back through all of them until he hits the dividing wall. Then, he turns around again. Repeat process.

He doesn't want to repeat it anymore.

He has to, though. He can't sleep, so there's no other option. Even though his eyelids are so heavy they feel as if they could drag the entire weight of his body down he can't close his eyes without stressing it even more.

At least when he's awake he can think in some capacity. He could stop at the computer again, or start scanning the list again for some obvious standout that may or may not even exist.

Or he could just wander in fucking circles, which is about what he's doing right now.

The more he does it, the more paths he creates through the library, the more he feels as if he's run a marathon. The truth is, though, that's how he's felt for a while. His heart never stops pounding now, to the point where it can see it jumping up and down through the rise and fall of his skin. It's as if it's reminding him that he's alive; it would be nice, almost, if it wasn't consuming every waking minute of his day, which was approximately all of them. It's all he can think about. With how hard it's working it could give out any minute. It did once already.

Sleep would probably help. Sleep would definitely help, but he can't get any. He knows he slept like the living dead when Icarus was there, but he's not about to admit that aloud. It was the same way for both of them, but they were stubborn.

If he was any less stubborn he would have went crawling back by now - it _should_ be him that goes crawling back. Regardless of his intentions or not he's the one that said the stupid fucking thing in the first place.

He doesn't blame him. Soran probably wouldn't go looking for someone that said they didn't matter either. Directly to their face, no less.

And he didn't mean it. He knows it's not true, and Icarus said that exact same thing.

It's not true, and he's just incredibly, overwhelmingly stupid.

On top of everything, now he's stressing about that, too. If he has to worry about one more thing he might just explode, no matter how little it is. It already feels like he could explode as is, or at least that his heart is going to.

There's a lot of things he feels like would help. Hitting something, for one. Maybe repeatedly, over and over again, until the feeling begins to dissipate or until his heart is too exhausted to keep up with it. He could keep walking and researching and stressing until he finally blacks out, which will happen soon if he doesn't sleep. No one would take kindly to finding him out cold on the floor in the morning with a probable head wound from the fall in the first place.

The worst part of it all is that he feels like he could easily burst into tears if he gave himself the opportunity. He can't even remember the last time he properly cried; when his mom died, maybe. Way over ten years then, so that must be great for his well-being. That was just how life went, though, and in the one he got dealt crying didn't get you anywhere. It got you beaten in the back-alley for showing any signs of personal weakness in the middle of a District that hated it almost more than anything else in the world.

He didn't allow that to happen; this could be his punishment, now. Crying ten years too late and then inevitably stressing about the fact that he's crying alone in a library instead of fucking doing anything about it.

He does three more circuits of the library before he stops somewhere in the middle of it on the fourth pass. His heart is definitely coming out, one way or another. It's going to burst right out of his chest. He's not just going to black out - someone's going to come in here tomorrow and find him _dead_.

History really does always repeat itself.

He sits down with a thud and leans back against the shelf. He's still shaking. That's consistent of the past while. His chest hurts again, but this time he can't blame it on something in there being broken, being wrong. It's worse that he's almost perfectly fine and it feels that way anyway. It goes to show that they can do everything to put you back together, pump you full of whatever they need to to send you on your way, and none of it matters in the long run.

He's losing it. He's well and truly losing it, and on top of that he's probably going to keel over dead in the next hour. Great. A huge fucking apology to whoever has the misfortune to walk in on that tomorrow morning.

Today, really. The whole not-sleeping thing has really screwed with his sense of time along with everything else.

He props his head up on his knees and tries to close his eyes, but nothing comes of it. Just more names, over and over again. It's not even a specific one anymore. Only a blur.

It feels like a long time that he sees them all merged into one. Too long to still be alive with his heart the way it is.

Somewhere not very far away, a door opens. Soran opens his eyes.

He, for some strange and miraculous reason unknown to him, is not dead.

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17  
Applicant #10**

* * *

They finish their list. He doesn't sleep that night until they do.

They finish their list, and they start their plan. It's a painful one when even getting off the grounds seems impossible, but it's necessary. There's no other obvious connection to be found.

It's three long, painful days that feels like three years, in reality. He's not even sure it's a plan. They're going to get out and do something - what, he's not sure. They'll figure it out when they get there.

But first, he's going to get Soran.

It takes all three days to convince himself to do it, in which case he doesn't see him even for a split second. As of yesterday, in Evander's words, he's _on the fast track to becoming a library hermit_. The image would have made him smile if the circumstances weren't so stupid and fucked up. He's not even sure how this conversation is going to go, if it's going to go at all. Icarus isn't planning on waking him up to come along if he finds him asleep.

He isn't even really expecting a conversation. The others are already waiting to go. He just feels bad leaving him here none the wiser.

And maybe, if he gets lucky, it'll fix something. Or at least it'll be the start to a solution.

Soran said it so many days ago now, not long before Icarus left. Not long before he kissed him for the first time.

 _I'm not fighting with you_. And he's not. He's fucking done, and it has nothing to do with how heavy he feels when he's not around.

No, it has everything to do with that. He never thought he would be living in a world where he needs him but it feels like that's where he's at. He needs him, he really does. For once in his life, because of that, he's going to be the bigger person. Someone ought to give him an award.

He's never even stepped foot in the library, for starters. It's very dark when he goes, and he nearly bumps into the first shelving unit that he comes across, holding out a hand until he comes to the end of it. The area closes in, then, to a little corridor that leads all the way through them clear to the other side before taking a left, out of sight.

If he's not in here Icarus has no idea where he's even going to begin.

He keeps a hand out to guide him, picking his way through the stacks. There's not even a sound in here except for his footsteps on the hardwood floor and the soft click of the door as it finally glides shut behind him. Unless he's asleep, though, Soran would have heard him. And if he has, he's not making it very obvious where he is. Icarus really isn't in the mood to play hide and seek with him when he could be doing something else, something much more important.

Whatever that even is.

"Soran?" he asks into the shadows, which might be a mistake. For all he knows that's going to chase him further into hiding.

Or not, because five or six feet later he nearly steps on him.

It takes everything in him not to scream as he jumps back, as the shape on the floor morphs into a rough, Soran-sized shape. He looks up at him - his eyes are narrowed into confused little slits, like he doesn't quite understand what's going on.

"I thought I was hearing things," he says roughly. His eyes dart away for a second, back the way he came, and then focus back on the floor again. That's weird.

"Why the fuck are you just sitting here?" he asks. He's not sure what else Soran is supposed to be doing, but it's worth asking. "Can you get up and come with me? I need to tell you something and I'm not sure how long we have."

Soran glances up again, eyes flicking up and back down in seconds that Icarus can't even keep track of. "I'm just gonna stay here."

"Jesus christ," he mutters. "Can you not be difficult for five minutes?"

Soran doesn't respond, this time. He re-wraps his hands around his knees, tighter this time, as if he's trying to force his fingers still. Icarus watches as they continue to tap anxiously against the tops of his shins.

"Soran," he says, but he doesn't even twitch. " _Hey."_

That gets something out of him, but when he glances up he looks confused again as if he forgot Icarus was standing there in the first place.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he asks, and it sounds like it came out harsher than he intended. It almost seems like something is legitimately wrong, but he can't put his finger on it.

"Is... is something wrong with me?" Soran asks. The confusion is stronger than ever. He can't even look him in the eye for more than a few seconds, although it looks more as if he's staring off past Icarus' shoulder and trying to figure out what's going on.

"That's what I'm asking you," he says. He could just leave. That would probably be easier, and a hell of a lot quicker. So what if Soran wants to stay on the floor for the rest of the night - that's his prerogative. But something's wrong. He knows it. Icarus crouches down beside him, putting a hand against the stack that he's leaning on, but a better look doesn't do much. He can see that he's shaking but the revelation does little - he doesn't look fearful of anything, just confused and very, very tired.

"I think I might be dying," he says. "Or having a heart attack, which I guess is the same fucking thing."

"What?"

"What do you mean, what, I can't fucking breathe so it feels an awful lot like I'm—"

"Don't say it again," he snaps. "Seriously, what the hell is wrong you?"

Repeating it doesn't go over great. Soran looks more alarmed this time, like he's devoting too much attention to figuring it out when he's already got so much going on. It really does look like he's struggling for breath, shaking every time he inhales and then breathing out too fast to be getting much of it. There's probably not enough oxygen getting to his brain to allow him to think clearly.

If he wasn't past concerned at this point he'd think Soran was like that all the time, and he'd say it aloud.

Right now he keeps his mouth shut.

"Look at me," he insists. "You know you're fine, right? You're breathing. You're definitely not dying."

"It doesn't fucking feel that way."

"I know it doesn't, but fact over fiction right now. You're not dying."

"How the hell do you know that?"

"Because I'm more intelligent than you give me credit for. You're just freaking out, and that's making it worse. Did something happen before I got here? What set this off?"

"What _didn't_ set this off?"

Icarus wishes he was going to get clarification on that anytime soon, but it doesn't appear as if that's happening. Okay, so it's a lot of things. He can understand that. He's experienced that too, which makes it easier to understand. He's ended up on the floor in this state more than he'd like to admit after working himself up into a frenzy.

"I can go get someone," he says, beginning to rise to his feet. "Do you want me to—"

Soran's hand launches out so fast he doesn't even see it coming when it latches onto his wrist, fingers digging in to the point of pain. "Don't you fucking dare."

He looks down at him. "What do you want me to do, then?" he asks softly.

This time it doesn't look as if Soran even hears him. He's got his eyes closed, now, but Icarus can still see the exhaustion and strain all over his face, the focus he's trying to put towards his breathing. He hasn't let go, either. When he's holding onto this way he feels bad for not noticing how bad he was shaking the moment he found him like this.

He hasn't said anything but he hasn't let go, either.

That has to be mean something.

"I'm sorry," he says at long last.

"For what?"

"You know what for."

"I'm the one that called you an asshole."

"And I'm the one that heavily implied that you didn't matter in the slightest, so if you're really trying to sell me on the fact that you're a more terrible person than I am then you're not getting anywhere fast."

Icarus eases back down next to him, painfully slow. He feels like any sudden movement could put him even further into hysterics. "I don't think you're a terrible person."

"I'm pretty sure I am," he answers. "I'm fine with it."

Doing terrible things doesn't make you a terrible person, though. Everyone in the world can fuck up over and over again but that doesn't mean you're instantly written off as a human being. At least he killed people as a part of the game - it was Icarus that decided to murder two guards back at Witsonee because he was scared of being there for any longer. And for good reason.

But that doesn't mean it was _good_ in general.

"Why did you come in here?" Soran asks, while he works on gently prying his fingers loose from around his wrist until he can just hold his hand, instead.

"Doesn't matter."

"It does."

"Oh, it does," he says. "But not right now."

He's already spent more time than he thought he would in here, for an entirely different reason. He does need to tell him about Kestrel, but not right now. This plan can work another night, though he should probably tell the others that. They must all still be waiting for him, growing more anxious by the second as the minutes tick on and their time grows shorter. There's only so much he can do, though, and it seems like the most important thing might just be right here.

Who's he kidding, really? It's definitely right here.

He inches forward, closing the last of the space between them, and then curls his other hand around the back of Soran's neck. His pulse is racing under his fingertips, but despite the speed of it it's even, a repeated, reliable pattern. Nothing is really, truly wrong with him.

"Just take it easy," he murmurs. "If I go for five minutes, will you be okay? I'll come right back."

"Yeah," he says, voice a little thick. "I won't die, apparently. So."

"You won't," he assures him. "Remember to breathe. I'll be right back."

He lets go of him in every sense of the word, albeit reluctantly, but leans down at the last second to press a kiss to the top of his head before he can tell himself not to. It feels much too soft for the two of them, dangerously so, but perhaps that's what they need right now. Maybe no bad can come of it if that's the case. Soran doesn't go all twitchy on him, doesn't come anywhere close to hyperventilating. Everything is solid save for the slight tremble that's still got his hands.

He turns on his heel, not quite running back down the corridor and out the library door. He can't make it seem that urgent.

It's not happening tonight, if it even was. But it definitely isn't right now.

There's only one thing he needs to do, and it involves getting back.

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17  
Applicant #13**

* * *

"Do you think he got lost?" Tarquin muses. "I think he got lost."

"Probably, knowing him," she mutters. They're sneak-out and take off plan isn't going to work so well if one of them goes fucking missing before they ever even leave her room. Ria looks like she's about to fall asleep, and Emmi wouldn't blame her. Tarquin's rolled over, back and forth, so many times on her bed that he's just about successfully unmade it without even trying.

She's about two seconds away from grabbing them and leaving. Icarus and Soran can stay here for all she cares, because they're wasting time. Soran probably wouldn't have even come in the first place.

The door flies open. Tarquin nearly falls off the bed.

"Alright, change of plan," Icarus announces. "You three can have fun. I'm staying here."

"Excuse me?" she asks, but he's already gone. That was fast. He already looked a little winded, as if he had run here in the first place. She immediately got the sense that he didn't run for much, so whatever this was must be important.

More important than getting out of here and possibly solving all of their problems?

It _better_ be important.

"Stay here," she insists, and rolls off the bed after him. He is quite literally gone when she gets out into the hall, but she can hear him down the next. He's making too much noise for this hour of the night. All the subtlety of their plan has now been thrown out the window and then stepped all over by the passerby's walking below and it doesn't seem like Icarus cares much.

Neither does she, then.

"Hey!" she yells after him, though she still has to force herself to a near sprint to finally catch him. "Hold on for a second!"

She gets close enough to grab his arm and jerk him back, though he doesn't look too happy about it. "What's going on?"

"Nothing. It's fine."

"I'm sorry, isn't talking that way exactly what screwed the two of you in the first place?" she asks, refusing to let go of his arm. He can drag her, if he wants to. She's up for that. "Tell me."

It looks like that worked. That's good, because it's true. He's told her enough details of that stupid fight that happened that she knows he won't walk away after saying the same thing, regardless of the circumstances. He tugs away from her grip but doesn't go anywhere - she was fully prepared to tackle him to the ground if he even so much as tried it.

"I found him like, mid-panic attack, on the floor, convinced he was dying. He's definitely not going anywhere right now and I told him I'd come right back. If you wanna take the two of them and go then you better hurry up."

"You think that's a good idea?"

"If you don't think it's a good idea then why the hell were we ever going at all?" he asks.

"You said it yourself - there's no one we can legitimately trust except each other."

"And that's going to do a whole lot of good if we fuck something up and then all die for it, right? I know what I said, but we might need help more than we think. I just told you what state I found him in. Isolating ourselves _doesn't work."_

It did out there. She's not out there anymore, though. She survived on her own for several long, agonizing days but that may not be an option anymore.

"What do you want to do, then?" she asks.

"I really don't care," he tells her. "I don't anymore, I'm just gonna go sit in there with him."

She's not about to stop him. He watches her for a moment, perhaps gauging what his chances are, but he turns around and starts walking again unscathed. Almost as fast as before, but not quite. Every passing second is draining them more and more, and apparently to some people it's doing more damage than she thought possible.

She hurries after him, not quite matching his pace but lurking a few steps back. He notices, she's sure, but doesn't say anything. She's not out to get under his skin tonight, and especially not Soran's. All she needs to do is make sure that everything is relatively okay, at least for tonight, and then apparently she needs to re-evaluate. This really isn't working for anyone.

"I swear to God, I told him to stay put," he hisses. She leans around him, eyeing the already-open library door. Maybe it was closed, when he left? It probably was.

He nearly rushes in, but she grabs his arm to stop him. He looks put out, about to snap at her, but she shushes him. There's noise coming from in there, far too much. She can't place any of the voices, but there are several, and she can't pinpoint one of them as Soran's. It's not anyone she knows, no matter how long she focuses on them.

So who is it, then?

She almost thinks Peacekeeper when a shape steps around the corner to look at them, the shape of whoever it is imposing and rigid. It's not that, though, not the deathly white of their uniform. It's darker instead, less obvious until she spends a few long seconds staring at him.

No, that's just a Capitol Police uniform.

On second thought, that might be worse.

"Icarus Devereux?" he asks, and then steps closer to get a better look at her. "And Emmi Langlois. Correct?"

"Never heard of them, sorry," she says, voice stunningly even. He gives her a less than impressed look. Well, at least she tried.

"I need the two of you to come with us."

There's a lot of them. More than she thinks is necessary, but what does she know? Nothing, apparently.

"Why?" she asks. Icarus, for once in his life, and probably wisely, is keeping his mouth shut. If she wasn't holding onto him he'd probably be forcing his way in there right now, and she can't picture that ending well.

"Questioning. That's all."

Questioning. In the middle of the fucking night. With Capitol Police Force officers who didn't even have to force their way in. How the hell did they even get through the gates?

"I'd prefer not to have another fight on our hands," he says. "So if you'd come with us..."

Okay, so Soran may or may not have put up a fight about this. He probably did; it's a very Soran-like thing to do, this she knows. And in the state he was apparently in that may have just made it worse. An escalation where no one really wanted one. Even him saying it makes her want to punch him more, and judging by the look on Icarus' face he's thinking the same thing. If she so desperately was trying to _avoid_ getting punched she would. He looks like he can hit harder than she'd really like to be hit tonight.

Which is to say, not at all.

"He's fine, if that's what you're wondering," he says. "We've got him."

Hopefully Ria and Tarquin have the good sense to hide if they see this coming. Run, and hide, because Soran's already gone.

And she gets the feeling that the two of them are about to be.

* * *

 **Kerensa Quinn, 55  
Former Interim First Lady of Panem**

* * *

It happens even quicker than she expected, once the gates are opened.

She doesn't see the commotion, but she hears it. Even from a distance it's more people that have moved through this place in pack-like unison than in dozens of years. She stays tucked away upstairs for the worst of it, until she can hear nothing any longer save for the vehicles down in the front circle, the opening and slamming of car doors.

They brought a dozen of those squadron vehicles through the gates, silent and dark. No one had saw them coming.

Besides her, but it was easy to see them coming when you let them in.

They're not properly gone but she heads downstairs regardless. The halls are quiet, ghostly almost. Most of the workers haven't even been disturbed; a few are poking their heads free from their nightly shifts to take a look around, but every single one stops when she passes by and returns to what they were doing as if they never even stopped. It's a neat trick.

Another few minutes now and they would all be gone. Not for long, she assumed, though Tate hadn't told her anything about that. It wasn't up to her where they went after this - back here or into holding seemed like the only two real options. Although they didn't appear that way they were the same in the long run. The same endgame was in mind for both.

Only one person beats her to the front doors, but she's not surprised by that. She gets one quick, split-second glance at the wreck that is her son, half-dressed and frazzled as can be, before he steps outside and she loses him. There's a phone to his ear; calling his sister, most likely. She can do more than he can, but neither of them can do _anything_ right now.

The air outside is warm and sticky, heavy with the threat of a thunderstorm. He hasn't noticed her but she steps forward to put a hand on his shoulder before he can make his way down the steps. He whirls on her, dislodging her grip with an ease that almost manages to unnerve.

"Mom," he says, relief seeping into his voice. Odd considering she hasn't seen or spoken to him since he tried to chew her out. "What the hell is happening right now?"

Evander starts forward again, and she grabs him this time even harder. He stops, and she hopes it's for good.

"Don't intervene," she says. "Nothing good will come of it."

"They can't just come in and do that," he says wildly. "Who said they can do that? Who—"

"The President, I assume," she tells him. "You can't fight him too."

He'd try if she let him go. Two of the cars pull away and he almost takes off running. Two of five, and one more to follow. He's a fool like his father was, always trying to take on things too big for them to handle individually.

"Mom?" Pandora asks. Silhouetted in the doorway behind him, odd shadows cast across her face, she looks even more harried than her brother. It's hard to associate this one before her with the graceful, put-together Pandora she used to know. She must have run all the way up here from the back cottage, shoes not even properly done up.

Oh how the times are changing.

"I'm going to get a car," Evander mutters, and he pulls away from her, shouldering around his sister back into the house.

"Following them won't do any good. They won't let you intervene in the questioning."

He's gone, so he doesn't answer. Pandora looks as if she's about to pick up where he left off, though. They ought to have been born twins - it would have saved her the initial pain.

"They can't take five kids and not expect someone to come running."

"And when it's several felony offenses on the table they're all adults in the eye of the law. They're all at least sixteen. They all knew what they were doing."

Talking this way is useless when Pandora's already mentally left the building. Hell, she's already beaten the squadron cars back to the police station and will get there even before Evander does.

"Mom," Pandora says again, although this time very voice is much smaller. It sounds like she's a little girl again, like she woke up scared from a nightmare. The few steps she takes closer are hesitant, nervous. As if she's the murderous monster now, when she just got rid of them. There's very little to fear anymore, but Pandora doesn't believe that.

Stubborn as always.

"Please tell me you didn't," she says quietly, but it's not phrased as a question.

"The President asked me if they'd need to acquire a warrant to get in. I told him not to bother."

"So you let them in?" she snaps. There's the fury she was waiting for, though she doesn't like the look of it on Pandora's face. Her daughter wasn't meant for anger. Her father used to tell her that when she was young, too, but maybe that changed when he did. Or maybe it all fell apart when he left.

"I can understand you hating him, okay, I can," she continues. "But this is not just about _him._ You're letting _five_ of them get ripped apart for no good reason when we already lost nineteen."

"And that's exactly why I've done it," she says. "You said it yourself. Nineteen kids died out there because of this. They have families and friends who want justice. And they deserve that justice."

"And what about the justice for the ones still left alive?" she shouts. "When did you start caring more about the dead than the living? You can't say this all started with Dad, because the person who killed him is dead now, and it was the five of them who killed her. How's that for _justice?_ "

"You can't fight the legality of this."

"Well, I'm going to try," she insists. The turn she does on her heel almost manages to look impressive. She hadn't even noticed Crynn lurking behind her, but once Pandora is gone it's just him there, staring at her with narrowed eyes. Normally if she stared back long enough he'd look away, or he'd leave. Now he's getting bold with her.

It lasts a few more seconds before he goes after her, no doubt to meet Evander in the garage. It's many more seconds than he's ever lasted in their staring matches previously.

She looks back down over the drive, where the last of the squadron cars is disappearing. It wasn't just a ploy to get her children to stay here for the night - there really isn't anything they can do to stop it. It's already in motion.

And if what she believes to be true is, then she already knows the ending.

* * *

Realized approximately twelve full hours after I finished writing it that Emmi's POV was actually supposed to be Ria's. Rocks in the brain, am I right? I know we're pretty much seeing everyone every chapter anyway, but my bad. At least it was a funny realization for myself.

Anyway, welcome the 50's :~) I repeat to kill me, I guess, but at least I'll only have to say something like that one more time.

Until next time.


	51. Scene of the Crime

XLVIII: The Capitol - Ashland North Police Station.

* * *

 **Tarquin Vierra, 16  
Applicant #4**

* * *

It's pretty obvious, so he won't give himself much credit for it, but they're in some deep shit.

He knows it the second the cops find them. The two that do both have guns. They both have handcuffs, both have batons. Tarquin gets a few very brief, ugly images in his head that all involve him and Ria laid out on the ground before he agrees to go with them.

He thinks it the whole car ride, when one of them shoves him into the back-seat of a car and then puts Ria in another one. He catches one glimpse of Emmi, enough to see her mouth a very obvious _fuck_ at him before the cop that's got her shoves her headfirst in and then slams the door behind her. All the time in the car he spends trying not to panic. The one driving hasn't touched him. He seems nice? Tarquin wouldn't know. It's not like they've even spoken.

Should they have read him his rights? They haven't technically arrested him, but it feels like they should have done that.

He doesn't know why he's acting like he really knows anything, because he doesn't.

He's walked by this police station before. It's not far from his school. There's a nice little cafe around the corner - if they walked fast him and his friends could come here to get lunch and get back before the next bell rang. Sometimes they were late back, but it never mattered.

And it doesn't matter that he's thinking about it now, because it's not like that's where he's headed.

He's the last one allowed out, and the others are gone by the time someone opens the door for him. It's different than before - no one is intent on hauling him around this time. Sure, they're still forcing him to go places and do things he doesn't want to do, but that's sort of their deal at this point.

No one grabs onto him, though. The man who opens the door holds an arm out as if to guide him but doesn't lay a hand on him. It's a clear invitation to cooperate, and to continue doing so. Things could get a whole lot worse if he doesn't.

He wants to ask, but he doesn't. He's sure any and all questions he has are about to be answered.

The man leads him into the building in silence, through the lobby and then down an adjacent hall. It still feels eerily similar to being trapped at Witsonee; at least this time someone has to know they're here. They're not trapped in the middle of nowhere, and this time no one's at risk of dying.

He thinks, anyway.

"If you could just take a seat," he says evenly. "Someone will be in in just a minute."

He nods, feeling like a robotic doll. The man opens the door to his left and he does just that, inching around the table in the middle of room to the furthest chair. He sits down, wiggles a bit, but there's no comfort. The chair is icy cold, metal all the way through.

The door closes.

It all of a sudden seems worse. It feels more _real_. The rooms look similar but this one is even smaller, and there's a camera in the top right corner. He's almost tempted to climb up on the chair and cover it, but he'd get in trouble for that. Probably best not to do that in a situation where he already _is_ in trouble.

He hears the even click-clack of heels coming down the hall from a mile away, and isn't surprised when the person they belong to opens the door. She smiles at him like she knows him. She definitely doesn't.

She looks more like a person than anybody did at Witsonee, though. She's put-together but not perfect. Some of her hair is escaping her ponytail. One of her blazer sleeves is rolled up higher than the other. Her teeth are crooked too he notices, the longer she keeps smiling at him.

He wishes she would stop.

"I'd just like to start by saying you're not in trouble," she says. It certainly feels like they are. "There's no need to be scared. My name is Ora Havilard, I'm a Detective here with the force. I'm just going to ask you some questions. If you have any for me feel free to interject."

"We already got questioned, so why is it happening again?" he asks. He might as well take advantage of it while she's offering.

"The process at Witsonee was... informal, to say the least. They don't usually handle that branch. We've collected the information they've given us and we'd just like to expand on it, if impossible."

It makes sense. Tarquin gets it, he really does. It doesn't make him any less inclined to like it.

"I'm sure you're aware of how your situation differs from the others."

She waits, raising an eyebrow when he doesn't say anything.

He blinks a few more times. "Is this another _you killed thirteen people_ reminder?"

He's had enough of them to last a lifetime - he certainly doesn't need one from a stranger. He can sense the exasperation she's holding in, which seems to be reoccurring thing when people try talking to them. Why anyone is still bothering is beyond him.

"I'm aware of the number. We're more focused on the fact that your companions had active involvement in killing some of the other applicants, but according to what you said at Witsonee, you didn't."

"Because it's true."

"And I believe you."

"Then why am I here, if you believe me?"

"You started in the ruins of Furnace Creek Ranch the first day - who were you with when you left? Or did you leave alone?"

"I wasn't."

"Then who?"

"Noelani, Topher, and Jay."

"Jupiter Valens?"

"Yes."

"And you don't know what happened to any of them?"

"No. Noelani and Topher left to look for supplies. Jay stayed with me, but he left. I don't know when. And I never saw any of them again."

Twelve hours and they were all just _gone_. It doesn't make sense that three people can just vanish like that. Someone from the Fallout group got Noelani, but what happened to Topher after that? He's still missing, after all. Did they kill him and take him too, or did they just hide him better? And who the hell knows what happened to Jay; there are too many options to pick just one. It hurts to even think about them all.

"I'm sorry if it seems intrusive - we're trying to find out specifically what happened to the other nineteen, but none of you seem to have had a hand in deaths of either of the Westmoreland's."

"And what about Jay?"

There's that eyebrow raise again. "According to the report we got I believe Miss Martorell admitted to that one." She flips through a few of her papers, drawing a finger along a particular line before she nods, satisfied with her own knowledge. "We'e you not aware of that?"

He wasn't - was he? Did she really never tell him? If she did he has no recollection of it. He also never told her about Jay leaving, either. Or so he thinks. Does he really know anything for sure, when his memories are so unreliable?

"When?" he asks.

"The day before you five were picked up at the border. The autopsy report lines up with that."

The day before. He made it that long? Tarquin can't imagine he got there on his own, either. Did he find Topher again then, after Noelani? It can't be like that, because then Ria might have some idea of why his body is still missing. And that was _after_ he found her, meaning she climbed down the mountain, probably, and then killed him.

The worse realization is that Jay left him, found someone else, and decided to stay with them. Or is it that Ria never said anything?

Why are both things so terrible?

"You weren't with anyone else?" she asks. "You didn't even see anyone?"

"No." Ria doesn't count because she's here with him. And she killed Jay, apparently.

"No one at all?"

"No," he repeats. "How long is this going to go on?"

"If you need a break, I can get someone to escort you to holding for a while. But we will need to pick this back up at some point."

Holding, great. They have no intention of just letting him go because he doesn't want to be here. They're going to drain him dry of information and then keep going even after that, he has no doubt. Ora is still staring at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. His throat feels like the desert he crawled out of.

"Can I go?" he asks hoarsely, and she nods. At least she's not forcing him to stay here. She folds up her papers and makes an odd sort of _stay put_ gesture, so he does. As soon as she's gone he feels that claustrophobic itch under his skin, like he's back in the tunnels and everything from every direction is closing in on him.

It's too small. There's not enough space. There's no one behind him now but he still feels himself glancing over his shoulder anyway, staring at the wall as if it's about to come to life and chase him.

Everything is closing in, now, and sooner or later part of it is going to break.

Or something inside it, first.

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17  
Applicant #13**

* * *

Whatever his name is - she's already forgotten it, but it was long and weird, shoves a gun across the table at her.

It's inside a plastic bag, labeled with something that doesn't mean anything to her.

"This is yours?" he asks.

"No," she answers, because it's not.

He gives her a look. "It has your fingerprints on it."

"Doesn't mean it's mine." She shrugs. "Also, where'd the fuck you get my fingerprints?"

He sighs and draws the gun back. She killed several people with that gun, applicants and Sentinel's alike, but it's not hers. She just happened to pick it up. After she killed somebody else. Technicalities, really, because that first lady - Flora Benson - she deserved it. You sort of deserved to have things taken from you when you basically asked for it, please and all.

She watches him jot a few things down but judging by the slant of it all his writing is chicken-scratch when you're reading it the _right_ way; she may as well not even bother when it's upside down. He's probably lamenting about the hand he got dealt in having to deal with her. It may not be the case all the time but right now she's convinced she's the biggest handful - no one else is even going to come close. Unless they lose Icarus, in which case he'll go stomping through the halls like a petulant child until someone gets Soran for him.

The man takes a few more things out - knives, and some of the broken down bits of her first-aid kit. Of all the things to collect and they took the ones she bled all over. Nice.

"And what about these?"

"You're acting like I waltzed out there with an arsenal. Where do _you_ think I got it from?"

"The Sentinel you killed, I presume. That's what it says in the Witsonee reports."

"So why are you asking?"

Even he looks perplexed. If he can't even come up with an answer to that, he should probably just quit while he's ahead and go home. Or quit in general, because he's apparently not very good at his job.

"Alright, I'm going to show you a few images," he tells her. "If there's anything you could tell me about them..."

Oh, fuck _no_. Like he's going to show her pictures and expect a response out of her, who does he think he is? She certainly doesn't care. They've probably been out there for days collecting evidence and photographing the scene of the crime directly; who knows what he's about to show her. It could be nothing, inconsequential photos, or it could be everything. It could be the worst things.

"Have you collected all of the bodies?" she asks, ignoring both him and the tabletop as he begins to lay out a series of laminated images.

"Most of them."

"Still no Topher?"

"No. Unless you can be of any assistance in that matter."

"Nope, sorry," she says. "Where are they?"

"Where are who?"

"The bodies," she says flatly. "Did they get brought back here? I assume the Capitol wouldn't trust anyone but their own to examine the bodies."

He doesn't respond to that one. So that's confidential and he's not supposed to tell her, or he doesn't know himself. She's probably right, though. If they didn't bring them here they would have had to send them to one of the back-Districts, or a new hospital out in one of the expansion zones. There's no chance in hell they would do that.

"Are they planning on giving the bodies back to the families?"

He sighs. "Miss Langlois."

"What?" she asks. "Is it wrong to want to know?"

"Of course not. It's just not information pertaining to our conversation."

Of course not. Asshole. Sue her for wanting just a little bit of information back when he's already asking for so much. He's still laying photos out on the table, too. There are at least two dozen of them. She knows where this is going, unfortunately. It doesn't matter that she doesn't want where it's going.

And she's still stuck on the concept of the bodies, so she doesn't want to look down at them now. Sure, she didn't know Trojan and she's still not sure she even cares, but she's pretty sure there isn't anyone who would even _want_ his body back. What are they going to do with it, then? Dump him into an unmarked grave, probably, in the hopes that people will forget about it one day.

Unlikely story.

"Alright, if you could help me out," he insists. He's probably about to get someone in here to hold her head forward if she doesn't cooperate so she does so, albeit reluctantly. Just over two dozen. She was right, those bastards. The one closest to her is an overhead view of Carnelia Trevall's glass-riddled, bloody corpse. She can't even see what wound killed her, or if it was all of them combined. It's still surreal that they did kill her; she keeps expecting to wake up one day with Carnelia and a knife hovering over her, smiling like a maniac.

That would be just her luck. It's not all fake, even if she wishes some of it was. These pictures definitely aren't fake.

"I'm going to go down the lines - if you could just tell me which ones you had involvement in that would be helpful. Just a simple 'yes' will do."

"Don't you already know which ones I had _involvement_ in?"

He gives her another pointed look. Alright, Emmi, just listen and do the damn thing. Get it over with before he makes her die of old age in here.

It's a little hard to see, what with the glaring light and all, but she does as she'd told. He inches his pointer finger down the first row of photos; Jahaira's the only one in that grouping of six, and the only one she speaks up for. No point in lying. Sabre's in the next row - a yes to him, and at the end of that line is Arwen. She has to swallow a massive, ugly lump in her throat before she can get the single word out. Her body doesn't even look right.

The Sentinels are easier, in a line of their own down at the bottom. A firm 'yes' on Flora, and she still doesn't feel bad about it, and a solid 'maybe' to the guy at the end.

"Maybe?" he asks.

"It might've been him," she hums. "He was on fire."

His sigh this time is decibels louder, but he writes that down. Or something at least.

"So five," he concludes. "Is that correct?"

"I guess so." Five sounds about right. It also sounds like a lot more when they put it this way. He pulls all of the photographs away except for those five and looks down at them himself, brow creased.

"And you're sure?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"For someone with your... capabilities, it just seems odd."

She stares at him. "I'm not sure if that was like, a misogynistic thing or an ableist one."

He rubs a hand over his eyes and doesn't even give her a response to that one. Both, then? She's assuming both until he proves otherwise. She also really wants to get out of this room if he's quickly proving to be both. Jokes on him - she could probably leap across this table and beat him senseless with that gun-in-the-bag thing, and it would only take one hand to do it.

She doesn't think he'd take kindly to her saying that, so she keeps her mouth shut. At least for now.

He may or may not be done with her, at least for a few minutes. She leans back in her chair, silent, while he pulls the photographs towards himself and then begins to scribble something else down. What the hell is he writing over there, a novel? She almost wants to see it.

But then again, it's just the truth, the beginning of the full story.

And she already knows all of that.

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16  
Applicant #17**

* * *

Turns out crocodile tears are a thing that actually work.

They weren't even intentional, is the thing. She's a little tired and a lot overwhelmed and the guy who had been talking to her was on the younger side, a little more susceptible to what she was feeling.

He was also sort of a sucker, but she feels bad thinking it. He was nice _and_ he agreed to let her out for a while once she had started looking distressed enough.

 _Out_ turns into a holding cell in a very long block of them. At least she tried.

There's a familiar face, though, so it's not all terrible. It's not as if Soran's spoken or looked in her direction once since she got marched down the hall, and they're separated by a line of bars, but it's something. She takes a seat on the icy cold bench and leans back against the bars just to his right, so she can at least still see him through the gaps.

The redness in her eyes must have faded by now, but even if it hadn't she still wouldn't have anything on how terrible he looks. Icarus had looked concerned earlier - this was probably why. He looks like he's mentally gone somewhere else.

"Have they talked to you?" she asks quietly. If her voice goes above a murmur she fears he'll spook, not that there's anywhere to go. He wouldn't get very far.

"They tried."

Well, two words was more than she thought she was going to get. That's okay. As long as she knows his brain is still working. It's not like she of all people was planning on having a full-blown conversation with him in the middle of all this anyway. She knows what she's seeing right now, too, even through the bars and without being able to look him in the eye. She's looked in the mirror and seen that before, the wear-down that occurs when everything you have is actively working against you. She just didn't expect it from _him._

He probably didn't expect it from him either.

All she can do really is just sit here and hope it helps. Someone else's presence never seemed to help her much, but he hasn't told her to screw off to the other side of the cell and leave him alone. And if Icarus _was_ with him earlier, then maybe it's something he needs. Everyone's different. Just because she was never that person doesn't mean he isn't.

And clearly someone tried to talk to him, probably like one of the ones that tried to get to her. Soran's probably wasn't as nice, though. Asking for that is probably a long shot.

She thought she'd be more scared. She is overwhelmed, that she knows, but not scared. It feels like every bad thing in the world is hurtling towards them and her brain is just... silent.

Maybe that's a good thing. Not everyone's is, clearly. Ria leans back through the bars as much as she can manage once again to get a good look at him. His eyes are blank, fixated ahead, unblinking for ten seconds, and then fifteen.

"Soran," she tries. Absolutely nothing. She even raised her voice a little to get his attention. He's got only a few more seconds before she reaches through the bars and shoves him onto the floor. She reaches through and nudges him, just the slightest bit, poking at the back of his shoulder insistently until he blinks a few times, rapidly, and then tilts his head back to look at her. He can feel the poking now, but it looks like he didn't before. And he definitely didn't hear her voice, either.

What was that thing Mr. Andruzzi talked about in biology last year? Microsleeps, was it? If he's that tired his brain will just shut down for him regardless of what he wants. She doesn't remember much else, though. She liked chemistry more than biology. She liked most things better than biology, really.

"You okay?" she asks. Stupid question, because she knows the answer. She's just not sure what else to say. "You could try and go to sleep."

He makes a noise - she doesn't take it as agreement. He slides his way down the bars and flops over onto the bench with a thump. She winces, but he doesn't even blink at the action, curling up onto his side facing her; his nose is nearly wedged between the bars, but it doesn't look like he cares.

Ria waits, but his eyes stay open. She waits, and waits, and waits.

He's more stubborn than she thought. It's not even like he has a view now, because he's staring at the side of her leg, an entire inch away.

She's not the proper type of person to deal with this. She doesn't know what to do, or what to say. If he won't listen to Icarus, why in the world would he listen to her when she doesn't have the voice for it?

In the end she does the only thing she can think to do - she lays down as well. It's the middle of the night, by now. She's tired. Who knows how long they'll leave her in here until they try again. She could never sleep in a situation like this before, but she has to be the calm one now. Maybe if she sleeps, or at least tries, he will too. It's a long shot but she's willing to try.

There's barely enough room for her on the bench; she has no idea how Soran is staying on. She does her best to get comfortable anyway, draping an arm over her face to shield her eyes from the buzzing artificial lights. There's not very much sound except for that and her own breathing; she can hear Soran's, too, but it sounds as if he's trying to be quiet about it. She has half a mind to tell him he doesn't need to, he really doesn't, but pointing that out is worse in her own mind than letting him be. At least it's giving him something to focus on.

Much to her surprise, she _does_ drift off, at least somewhat. It still feels like she hear things, occasionally, voices from very far away or footsteps. The bench is too cold to ever get properly comfortable, and that lingers too. Altogether it's not an overly pleasant experience but it's far from the worst.

Almost, anyway.

She wakes up, and there's a hand on her.

Her first thought is Soran is getting back at her for all the poking earlier, but that's incorrect. The second is that she's still dreaming, but nope. She opens her eyes and there's someone looming above her, an absolute giant of a figure, and one of their hands is locked around her wrist. It's a tight hold, but it's not doing much until she rolls off the bench in her sleep-induced panic and it's all that's left to hold her up as she otherwise hits the ground with a thud.

There's a sharp, ugly burst of pain all throughout her wrist, and she clamps down on her lip to keep the cry of pain from escaping; it's almost successful, save for the whimper that gets out before she can stop it. The crocodile tears from before are suddenly very real in her eyes, burning at the corners and threatening to spill over. The man pulls her properly to his feet - it's just another guard, a different one than before, but one all the same. He probably wanted her out, and she didn't respond.

"Does she not look breakable enough to you?" Soran asks, and oh, he sounds angry now. That's better than completely blank. "What the fuck?"

She's getting pulled back into the corridor, but she turns around to get a good look at him. Sort of. It's hard to see, still. He's on his feet, now, and he _looks_ angry too. One point to her, although she achieved it in a way that she had no ultimate say in. If the bars weren't there he would have done something, but they are. At least the thought is touching.

His grip is still horrendously tight, though, and if her bones aren't broken already they're about to be. He'd probably break Soran too.

She thought she was getting better, and maybe she is, but apparently she's still on the breakable side.

At least it's her and no one else.

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17  
Applicant #10**

* * *

"You can let go of me now," he informs the lady holding onto him, who might as well be nameless considering how forthcoming she's been.

Which is to say not at all.

She's literally holding onto him by the _shirt_ , too, all five fingers with a fistful of it between his shoulder blades. She might as well have put him on a leash. She looks up at him when he says it - it was slightly gratifying how much height he had on her until he had realized that her biceps were as thick around as his neck was. One hit and she would knock him the hell out without even thinking about it.

This is the boldest he's got with her since he realized that particular fact and it's only because he's got Pandora in his sights. She was on her feet the second he came through the door into the lobby, and she looks like she'd have already herded him a hundred feet away if this wretched lady wasn't holding onto him.

Which is why she really, seriously needs to let go of him.

She hesitates for a moment before she does, like she's unsure it's the right call. They told her they were done with him, so it's not hers to make, but he doesn't blame her for it. He wouldn't let him go either, but he's not going to tell her that. The second he's free he hurries across the lobby away from her, but her eyes are burning holes through the back of his head the entire time.

"Are you okay?" Pandora asks, though her eyes are still fixated far beyond him. Is the woman's face that sour that even Pandora can't look away from it? Probably.

"Awesome," he responds, though that bitterness that drags his voice down proves otherwise. He's less than the ideal amount of awesome.

"I'm gonna get Evander to take you back home," she tells him. "I'll stay here, and—"

"Wait, am I the only one that's out?" he asks. He was in there for literal _hours_ \- what the fuck is going on with everyone else that he managed to get out first?

"From the sounds of it you were the one that cooperated the easiest."

"How in the world is that the case?"

"I don't know, I'm sorry," she says. "I've been trying to get updates but they're not telling me much. From what I understand you stayed in the room with one for a few hours, right? You never took a break?"

"No?"

"Everyone else did, I think. We've probably still got a few hours to go."

"Fuck," he emphasizes. He'd punch something right now if he wouldn't get in trouble for it, namely that woman and her stupid face. "Why can't they just leave us _alone_?"

He only cooperated because he wanted to get the hell out of here but not everyone else is necessarily in that same mindest. Emmi, maybe, but that ends there. Tarquin and Ria probably aren't doing so well, and god only knows that Soran isn't. If someone even manages to scrape him out of whatever chair they sat him in without assistance Icarus will be shocked.

"Alright, let's head outside," Pandora says. "We can talk there."

"You're not taking me home."

"Okay, that's fine. But still - outside."

He nods, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. He's got the slightest bit of a headache, pressing just enough at the inside of his skull to be annoying. Probably from how many stupid ass questions he just got drilled into his brain, questions they already knew the answer to but had to ask again anyway. He wants to leave, don't get him wrong, but it's not even like he'd be going home. He may call it that because she did, but that's not home.

It's not really anything. It almost felt like safety until a few hours ago, but not anymore.

He sits down outside on the first thing he finds, which happens to be two whole inches of window ledge backed up against the wall. There's a bench a ways out, but there's rain drizzling down from the sky and he's not in the mood to go out there. At least this way he's sheltered, if not from the chill of the wind. It's not like it matters.

There's no sign of Evander or Crynn, though they must be around here somewhere. They're a pack, those three, albeit a small one. Pandora considers her options for a moment before she sits down next to him, leaving just the right amount of space.

"How fucked do you think we are, really?" he asks. "Be honest."

"Pretty fucked."

And there it is, folks. If she's willing to admit it and say it like that, then they well and truly are.

"They wouldn't be bothering with so many rounds of questioning if they weren't looking to prosecute. I'd say that's what the President wants most of all."

"So what, they're going to put us in prison for the rest of our lives for something that wasn't even technically our fault?"

"Or worse," she murmurs.

He sighs. "Why did I even bother surviving if I'm just going to die anyway?"

"We don't know that's going to happen."

"No, but it feels like we do."

"There's still time to fix this," she says quietly. It doesn't feel like there is. "We still have time."

"But we're guilty," he points out. "We've admitted it more than once, and even if we hadn't they have all the bodies, all the weapons. They have everything they need to prove it even if we tried to take it back. They won't even need to do anything else. They could put us in front of a judge and sentence us tomorrow if that's what the President wanted, and we know that's what he wants, do we not?"

Pandora looks beyond defeated. Finally she feels the same way that the rest of them do. At least she hasn't entered into breakdown territory like Soran; not yet, anyway.

If only they would just let him out too. Icarus would feel a lot better if he had physical proof that Soran hadn't fractured into a dozen pieces. He's still mad about the whole thing, at how inevitable the collapse was, about how it happened anyway. Maybe it wouldn't have if he had been there the entire time, but there's no telling. There's no reversing the past, either.

There's only one person he's certain was there the whole time, and she's sitting right next to him. It happened anyway.

"When he gets out, go easy on him," he says. He doesn't have to tell her who, because she knows. Her eyebrows crease together though, turning to look at him with confusion evident in her eyes.

"I don't think he's gonna be in good shape," he continues. "I don't know what he's been doing, if he's been sleeping, I don't know anything. I just know it's not good."

"I tried. He doesn't listen to me."

"He doesn't listen to anyone."

"He listens to you," she says. "Even if you may not think that."

It doesn't feel like it, sometimes. He'd really like to believe that, to believe in the easier of all of the options. If Soran spent even a fraction of the time he spends ignoring him listening to him instead they probably wouldn't be here.

"I'm sorry for not keeping a better eye on him," she says. "It's been rough the past few days. But I'll do better."

Pandora really is trying so hard, harder than he's ever tried for anything beyond survival in his entire life. She looks tired - not nearly as tired as Soran, but tired. They're not the easiest things to deal with, this he knows. The effort is worth more than she knows, more than he'll ever be able to put into words. He's normally so articulate, too, but he's been out of them for a while.

"We all need to do better," he says. At everything and anything, and survival needs to be at the forefront.

"We will," she assures him. "I'm going to ask about him. I won't be long."

He nods, and she squeezes his shoulder before she goes. There's almost no chance they tell her anything worth knowing, but she's going for his sake. If he looks half as worried as he feels than she can probably see it all over his face. She's already trying to do better; for him, for everyone. For herself, too.

Hopefully it turns out to be worth something.

* * *

Unedited and going up anyway, it's the writer's life for me.

I like reviews for Christmas and I heart JAJ. That is all.

Until next time.


	52. Rock Bottom

XLIX: The Capitol - Ashland North Police Station.

* * *

 **Soran Faerber, 19  
Applicant #8**

* * *

It feels like days.

It's all about retreating into his own head. It's not safe there, but it's not safe anywhere as he learned. If he's in there at least no one else can get him. Everything is just stunningly, blissfully empty, or at least he's forcing it to be that way. He clears out a corner of his brain until there's nothing even close to touching it and then resides there.

There's no drowning out everything going on around him, but that would be impossible. This part of his brain may be empty but that doesn't stop him from hearing things, seeing them out of the corner of his eye. They're never there for real, but he can see them.

And the look on Ria's face is still there, too. How distraught she had looked before the pain had set in, and that was all he could see. It didn't look broken, but he didn't know any better. It's not like he could do anything.

He never used to wish he could do things until now.

They take him out again to talk to him, but they let him sit there a long while before they do. It must be hours that Ria's been gone, now, and someone finally comes back for him. It's just more of the same; questions and photographs and weapons, more questions when he doesn't answer the first ones properly. He feels robotic, like everything that's coming out is an automated reply. They even get a few different people to try, but nothing changes. Part of him wants to say _it's not you, don't worry_ but they wouldn't care.

He's back in the same holding cell, again, when the door slides open and slams into place.

He didn't even make it to the bench last time - he claimed the floor again because it felt easier, because there was no one else there to tell him not to. None of the guards care.

There's a problem with his head, though. He's imagined the door opening maybe a half dozen times but it never was, not for real. He would look, but it was never real.

And he's so, so tired of looking.

"C'mon, kid."

Or what, he wants to ask? _Or what_? Are they going to come in here and try to snap his wrist as well? It doesn't even fucking matter.

He looks up. His eyes are all fuzzy, and there's no expression on the man's face that he can pick apart from the others. The door is actually open. There's someone else with him, too, and oh—

Pandora wasn't there before. Maybe this is real.

He stays on the floor for a few extra seconds, though, and stares. Neither of them go away. The door is still wide open. He's going to have to get up and get out of here, or else he's going to fuse to the floor. Not the worst fate to have, he's sure, although Pandora may beg to differ. She is here for real, after all, so someone would care. Not him, but someone.

He grabs the bars nearest to him and pulls himself back to his feet, ignoring all of the pops and creaks coming from every single inch of his body as he does so. It feels like a long, mile walk, but the guard steps aside and lets him out. Pandora doesn't look good. Upset, maybe? Upset about what? He's not even sure that's the right emotion but he's not sure what else to call it.

"Let's go," she urges quietly. "We're getting out of here."

Well, that's nice. It's about time too. This guy could probably snap her in half but she still steps between the two of them while he gets to work locking up the door once again. A hand lands on his back but it's gentle, still insistent in the way it presses him in one direction over the other. She doesn't let up on it, either, once he finally gets the message to start walking. The guard is clearly still behind them. Her attempting to be the protector right now feels way too backwards to be viable, but it's definitely not him.

"You okay?" she asks him and he nods, but it still feels robotic. There's morning light coming in through the windows of the lobby. Morning, already.

"Just wait outside," she tells him. "I just have to make sure we're all good."

She walks him nearly all the way to the door before she turns away, back to the front counter. Soran nudges the door open with his foot, sliding out into the early light with hardly a sound. The change renders him half-blind for a few long seconds, in which he hears a few muffled and colorful swears. A hand lands on each of his arms, squeezing, and his vision comes back in time for him to see a quick glance of Icarus' face before the hands disappear and then he's crushed against his chest.

Alright, well, he wasn't planning on dying via hug after this, but whatever. It's fine.

Icarus is squeezing him so tight it'll be a miracle if he walks away from it without bruises. He shifts a bit, trying to free his trapped arms, and eventually succeeds in getting one up just enough to cling to his side. It doesn't feel like enough.

"Am I hurting you?"

He shakes his head. It's a futile effort with his head trapped in the crook of Icarus' shoulder, but he thinks the message gets across. This is the first time he hasn't been in any sort of physical pain in a long time. It's almost enough to be nice.

Almost.

"Are you okay?"

"I don't know," he says hoarsely. He can't even get his head up to say it properly because of how tightly Icarus has got him.

"That's fine. It's okay."

It's not fucking fine, it's not. How does he not know if he's okay? How come he doesn't know _anything_ right now beyond the fact that that ugly feeling that he's about to cry has come back? What will happen if he just randomly bursts into tears in the safety of Icarus' arms - will he die on the spot? Probably? Icarus would look even more upset than he already does, and he was matching Pandora in that regard. Soran still doesn't know why.

His eyes are burning. He can't tell if he's that close to passing out or if he really is about to cry. Whatever it is, he's willing it to fuck off just for a little while. It's taking everything in him to focus on each individual inhale and exhale and crying would really not help. It's just Icarus' words right now - remember to breathe. That's all he's capable of doing.

"Where's everyone else?" he asks eventually. He could probably lift his head up now, but he doesn't want to. Just because Icarus might be about to ease up doesn't mean he's ready for it.

Is this the longest he's ever allowed himself to be hugged for?

"Evander took them back about a half hour ago and then brought the car back. Not enough room for all of us."

So that means Evander is lurking somewhere too, about to witness this? Awesome. That's a confidence booster if he's ever heard of one.

Behind them the door comes swinging out and nearly hits them both. He made it even less distance than he thought. Icarus glances up, but he stays put. There's no way it's anyone other than Pandora; they're silent, and they don't go anywhere. She's just letting him be, and they're probably sporting an equally weird, sad glance over his shoulder like they're sharing emotions.

Who knows anymore; it's definitely not him.

"You ready to go?" Icarus asks, breath tickling against the side of Soran's neck.

"I don't know," he says again. "Could I just stay here for the rest of my life?"

"We could, yeah."

 _We_ , not _I_. So Icarus is planning on staying with him whatever he chooses to do. He apologized earlier, right? He thinks he did, but he can't remember a single concrete thing from before eight hours ago. It's just the cell and his own head, all the questions morphing into one.

He pulls back, but Icarus doesn't let him go more than an arms-length away, holding onto him at the waist instead.

Over his shoulder Pandora still looks slightly sad. Icarus looks more than slightly sad. Evander will probably look sad too at this rate and not even have a good goddamn reason for it. It's the running gag of today, because he knows he looks less than stellar too. Nothing he can do about it unfortunately. Everything would be much easier if he could - today probably wouldn't have gone the way it did if he didn't feel this way. This station would have gladly gotten rid of him any other day, and they would have done it a lot quicker.

"Alright," he mumbles. "Let's go."

Icarus tries to smile. He appreciates the effort, poor as it is. His hands fall away from Soran's waist but one comes back up to grab his own, and even through the numbness that he's expecting to be more permanent by the day he feels how hard he squeezes, how tightly he holds on.

"Yeah," Icarus agrees. "Let's go."

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17  
Applicant #10**

* * *

Soran nearly falls asleep on him in the car.

Nearly. Icarus waits with fast-fading patience, but he doesn't no matter how long he waits and watches. He's literally supporting all of his weight but he just won't go the fuck to sleep. He's actively fighting it, or else he'd be out by now. No one just spends days not sleeping and _can't,_ especially not after how drained he is and with how quiet the car is the whole way back.

He has half a mind to yell at him, but there's a whole list of reasons why he can't. He keeps going over them in his head to avoid doing it.

One, he's seriously done fighting with him. He doesn't _want_ to. Second, Pandora and Evander are in both the front seats, and while they're not exactly watching the backseat they're still way too close to say anything above the slightest murmur without getting caught. He definitely couldn't start yelling. And three, probably most important of them all, he doesn't want to make anything worse. He already found him on the verge of one breakdown - another one could happen at any second if the wrong thing occurs.

He has no desire to be the cause of anything like that.

Soran just looks so vacant. You know, the type that would inspire terror in a Games-type scenario but just looks awful in the midst of anything else. There's nothing he can do it fix that except to ensure he goes to sleep, so that's what he's doing to do.

Icarus doesn't give him a choice otherwise. He gives a quick, half-hearted goodbye to both Pandora and Evander, who make no effort to stop him, and then he drags Soran free from the garage and back into the Estate. He doesn't even know where he is from this direction, but navigating is solely on him. Soran looks like a five year old who missed his daily nap, half-dead on his feet and paying no mind to any of his surroundings. The edge of paranoia from before is gone and has been replaced in the face of sheer exhaustion.

He walks in a few circles before he figures out exactly which way he's going, but there's no one close enough to their right mind to notice. He only finds Emmi, eventually, but she's far off down the opposite hall and only makes a few hand gestures at him, finally settling on a thumbs up and then a thumbs down, one after the other. He waves a hand back at her, something between the both of them. He's not sure how he feels exactly, or what direction this is heading in. Right now he's just hoping it's heading towards sleep.

She leaves them be, too, so she must think the same thing he does. She's too far away for him to tell anything else.

For how slow they're moving it takes less time than he expected. He opens the door and drops Soran on the edge of the bed, where he lands with a thud and then promptly careens onto his side where he stays, unmoving.

Icarus goes to the bathroom, comes back, and he's still sitting like that. Feet hovering just above the floor, everything waist up twisted awkwardly in an attempt at laying down.

"You staying like that?" he asks. Soran mumbles a bunch of nonsense into the pillow and says nothing else.

He's tired too. Not Soran-level tired, but tired. He still sort of wants to take a shower and wash all the grime off from effectively spending a night in jail but that would require more energy than he thinks he has stored up.

He hovers for a while, until Soran finally goes wiggling around and then gets his feet onto the bed as well, rolling closer to the middle. He didn't even have shoes on when they came looking.

There's a part of him that thinks he should maybe make Soran shower, too, or at least eat something. You know, act like a viable human being for the first time in a while. He also has no desire to listen to him pass out in the shower, and he thinks eating is going to be more trouble than it's worth. They can do all of those things later once he wakes up, however many hours that's going to be. Icarus gets the feeling it's going to be a while.

"When's the last time you slept, really?" he asks, sitting down beside him. Soran turns his face out of the pillow and cracks his eyes open, looking mighty confused about that himself.

"Three days?" he says. "Four? I don't know."

"Awesome," he says flatly. "You can't do that to yourself, you know."

"You can't tell me what to do," he mumbles, and now he actually _sounds_ like a five year old. "I can and I will."

"Be nice," he warns. "This is my bed you're sleeping in."

"Not sleeping." He says it as if to prove a point, but he yawns so widely immediately after that the purpose is defeated almost instantly. He still doesn't even sound right. Some of that is stemming from what happened earlier, and shit like that doesn't just go away. He'll still feel the after-effect of it when he wakes up. He might just feel it for days.

But he's _okay_ , or at least he will be, and Icarus is satisfied with that.

He inches down next to him and drags the lone blanket from the end up of the bed up over them; it's the only one that's not currently being laid on, so it'll have to do. He rolls over to stare at him, watching Soran fiddle with the pillow's edge, eyes still open and staring at nothing yet again. Not to mention that that's the side Icarus has been sleeping on, and now Soran's claimed it. He's not saying a word.

He inches closer, head nearly slipping off of the pillow and onto Icarus'. He takes the opportunity for what it is and curls an arm around him, holding him there. He can't say Icarus is being clingy if he's the one that came over here first.

"Did I apologize earlier?" Soran asks, though he barely hears it. Dare he say it, but it sounds like he's about to fall asleep.

"You did."

"Okay."

It's not perfect, though he doubts they ever will be. He's no stunning optimist, but it won't feel like this all the time. Something has to give eventually.

Something has to change.

"I don't want to feel like this anymore," he says. It's so quiet that Icarus almost thinks that he's hearing things, but Soran is still most definitely awake even if he can no longer see his face to tell. It sounds worse than anything else, and it manages to break his heart just a little bit. What world are they living in where Soran sounds like this? Not a good one.

"It's not forever," he murmurs. "It'll be different when you wake up."

It will be, for better or for worse. Icarus can only hope that it's even slightly better, for his sake and most importantly for Soran's. You know what they say about what happens when you hit rock bottom - you can only go up, after that.

Icarus isn't sure it's true. It feels like he's been headed downwards forever now, or at least for the past year. It's long enough.

It's not himself he has to believe it for, though. They have to go up.

There's no other option.

* * *

 **Tarquin Vierra, 16  
Applicant #4**

* * *

Going to bed seems like the logical thing to do when you were up all night.

It's not the logical thing for him.

Sleep is wrong now. It doesn't work the way it used to, the easy way, the comfortable way. It feels like the worst kind of chore. He dreads settling down for the night when before it just seemed like an eager opportunity to start the next day.

He does, though, because he's still trying to cling to the way things used to be. And for once since they've been here he actually manages to settle down within minutes, slipping away like it was no trouble at all. Maybe because of how long he's been awake, or the stress of it all. Being in here is actually a million times better than being trapped in one of those interrogation rooms.

He sleeps soundly, for the first time a while. Really, genuinely sleeps.

But something happens. Something changes.

He hears something. A scratch, a tap. Like the drum of someone's nails against a desk's edge, like a branch against a window-pane, moved by the wind. Nyx hasn't flinched from his position at the end of the bed, undisturbed by whatever it is. It feels off, but not enough to stop him from sitting up. The blankets fall away, and even though the window is closed he feels a sudden chill spread over his shoulders, all the way down his spine.

The tap is repeated, over and over again. _Tap tap tap._ It grows insistent, louder with every passing second. It feels like it's right inside his skull.

There's a shadow at the window, and he scrambles up to his feet, nearly tripping over both of them. Something slams against it with a _bang_ ; he jumps, but Nyx stays still.

It's a hand, he realizes. A hand, palm flat against the glass, nails digging in just enough. _Tap tap tap._

And then there's a face, too, from out of nowhere. Like it materialized from thin air. The dread settles over him as he recognizes it like a blanket would but this feels too heavy. It's going to drag him down. He knows her. He saw her. He ran from her.

 _Run along now, little mouse._

It's her all over again. Her face looks brighter. Younger, too. Without the shadows of the mines flickering at its edge she looks more like a real person. He found her after, too, in the rubble of it all. Half the skin of her face was burnt off from the proximity of the explosion. She doesn't look like that now.

She's clinging to stay up with both hands, one wrapped around the outside sill. A part of him, in any other circumstance, would be rushing to help her.

And then she starts screaming.

Tarquin nearly falls backwards. He expects the window to shatter, but it doesn't. Finally awoken, Nyx goes from a peaceful slumber to on all fours within a span of two seconds, ears flattened to the back of his head. On and on it goes but nothing wavers, not the sound or her hands either. She's holding on for dear life but doesn't look as if she's struggling at all.

She said she wouldn't be so kind the next time she saw him, but that was when she had died.

Now she was back, though. Now he was going to pay for it. He has to shove her off before she comes in here to kill him.

He wakes up before he even touches the window's edge.

He nearly rolls off the bed, for starters. He grabs the edge of it and then the bedside table with both hands, forcing himself back up before he can hit the deck. Nyx meows plaintively from the end of the bed as if sad to be disturbed, rolling over himself to face away from Tarquin's nonsense.

Is that what this is? Nonsense?

He looks to the window, but nothing's there.

Tarquin finally allows himself to fall towards the floor but uses the table to rise back up. Half the blankets are tangled around his legs and he kicks them all away, frantically. For one long, panicked moment he nearly jumps back onto the bed for fear that something is about to reach out from beneath the bed and grab him. Finally he's free, though he can't make himself let go of the table. There's nothing there. Was there ever anything there?

It's just him, and the cat who probably can't understand what he's doing right now.

It wasn't even a dream. He'd never call that a dream.

No, that was a full-blown nightmare.

He creeps closer to the window even though every instinct is telling him to run for it while he still can. Flee deeper into the mines when he has time to do so. He reaches a hand out, trembling, to flick the window's latch open. There's no noise - there's not even a single shadow. He flings it open one-handed and then back-pedals halfway across the room, staring as if something is about to come rushing through.

Only the wind does. It's cool, but not enough to make him shiver.

There was nothing real about it.

He finally allows himself closer again and this time he grabs onto the curtain as an anchor, something to tether him to this place so he can't run. There's no reason to. Nothing's there, and he knows it, but it still takes a long minute to work up the nerve to look out, ducking underneath the glass to stick his head all the way out, and then his shoulders.

There's nothing fucking _there_ , and something's most definitely wrong with him.

He looks in every direction, and then up and down. There's no one waiting to drop down from above, no body splattered all over the pavement below. No, he already killed her. He saw to that a while ago, and she's not coming back for him now.

Tarquin lets go of the curtain to grab the sill with both hands, leaning out as far as he can possibly go. If tossing a leg over wouldn't send him plummeting to his death he would do so, but it's not worth it.

If only he could convince his brain of that. He _is_ safe, as safe as he can be anyway. There's nothing wrong.

"Tarquin?"

He nearly falls out of the window.

He jolts, rams himself into the side of the frame, and then someone's grabbing onto him. He gets dragged back in before he can even begin to process what's happened, and he finally hits the floor on his knees as whoever it is lets go. He slumps to the side, up against the wall, and reaches back for the sill almost subconsciously, like he has to keep looking.

Ria's standing above him, eyes very wide.

He's definitely not going to be looking again anytime soon.

She hasn't said anything beyond his name. How did he not even hear her come in? Clearly Nyx did. The cat gets up with a happy little chirp and then jumps down to wind around her ankles before he abandons them both and then hops onto the sill. Ria reaches forward and slams the window shut, narrowly missing his fingers and Nyx's furry little head.

She looks a lot of things. Alarmed, nervous, worried.

Scared.

 _Oh_.

"I wasn't," he starts, but his voice is shaking so terribly even two words are difficult to get out. "I wasn't doing anything. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, fuck, what was I _doing_ —"

"What _were_ you doing?" she asks, fear bleeding into her tone. He doesn't even know. He had a nightmare, but everyone has those. He knew it wasn't real, so why'd he have to climb halfway out the window to check? Because he was scared? That's not a good enough reason to accidentally slip out and break his neck when he falls the several dozen feet to the ground.

That's what Ria saw when she came in. And that's what she thought...

"I'm sorry," he repeats. "Fuck, I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize."

"I wasn't doing anything," he insists. "I wasn't, okay, I swear."

"Okay," she says softly. "I believe you."

Does she really? He can't tell. He can never quite tell with her.

She reaches a hand out - he's not sure what the hell he was going to do with it, because this is _Ria_ of all people, but he latches onto it before she can get any further. She doesn't necessarily look the most thrilled about it, but his read on her has never been good. Like he said, this is her. She's almost impossible, but not in a bad way.

She doesn't wrench away, or tell him to let go. He doesn't.

She was probably going to pat him on the shoulder, or something, or at best put a hand on his knee like a normal person. Now she's stuck on the floor with him sitting there even more pathetically, crouched underneath the window like a raving lunatic, and she doesn't have a choice about leaving. Nyx is still sitting up there even though she's closed it, and his tail is occasionally whisking softly over the top of Tarquin's head. It feels somewhat comforting.

He really can't sleep anymore, though. He can't do it. There's nothing that can happen from here on out that will make him, not when the prospect of closing his eyes is the worst one he can think of right now.

He's scared, or maybe beyond that. It's a feeling he's never felt before.

He was telling the truth about what he was doing, but the alternative isn't far off. He could've fallen. He could've broken his neck. He could've died.

He didn't. But maybe he could.

And he has a feeling, a terrible one, that the day for it isn't as far off as he initially believed.

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16**  
 **Applicant #17**

* * *

Tarquin's eyes slip into something like resignation, a tired version of it. She watches it happen.

"Hey," she says. He blinks at her a few times. Swallows.

She doesn't want to know what that was. Not any of it.

He hadn't answered when she had knocked those few times. Any other time and she wouldn't have even considering coming in here if he was asleep, but she couldn't bear the thought of tracking down the doctor alone. She hadn't wanted to wake anyone else up, either. Only him.

And then her heart had fallen straight through her stomach and out onto the floor. She was surprised the carpet wasn't stained.

She does believe him, mostly. She hadn't at first but the longer he sits curled up on the floor the more she does, for some odd reason she can't put her finger on. He just doesn't seem like the type to lie, not even about something so terrible. He's not doing well, per say, but none of them really are. After what happened tonight she wouldn't even blame him.

It's not happening, though. It's okay.

"Do you want to come somewhere with me?" she asks. There's the bit of life she was expecting, as she gives him something new to focus on.

"Where?"

"I wanna track down the doctor."

"I thought you said it was okay?" He lets go, bringing back all the feeling into her good hand, to poke gently at the skin below her wrist. It's aching a bit, but there's nothing that's overly painful. It hurts to move, but everything is still working as far as she can tell, so it must not be broken. Better safe than sorry, though. She'd rather not have it be screwed up for life because she was too cowardly to seek help.

Tarquin was the only one who knew outside of Soran, and that was only because the latter had witnessed it. Clearly the guard who had done it had said nothing to no one. By the time she had gotten out the initial pain had faded, and even then she had kept it tucked close to her side to avoid further damage.

She hadn't even wanted anyone to notice, but he had. And she had told him it was okay.

Apparently she's a better liar than him.

"I think it is," she responds. "It's not too bad, really. I just want to make sure."

He nods, and it's decided. She's not sure she'd want to leave him alone in here anyway, not after what just happened, and she doesn't think he'd want that either. She helps him up to his feet and they both leave the room with Nyx meandering along at their heels, although a few minutes later she turns and he's gone, just like that. It's a little bit lighter in here now, past dawn, but there are still hardly any signs of life. She thinks she knows where she's going, anyway, downstairs and then below ground. She's come down here once before, wandering aimlessly, and even saw him once from a distance before he came to properly deal with her later on.

It's that same door she saw him outside of that she heads to now, knocking a few times. Tarquin stays behind her the whole while, silent and hunched over. There's no other way to put it, because he just looks awful. She doesn't look the pinnacle of perfect right now either, but there's something different about him.

The door opens. She's met with a sight not entirely unlike the one from a few days ago, but different all the same. Dr. Arranmore, for one, looks like he's gotten a full night's sleep unlike the rest of them.

Good for him.

"Oh, Isperia, hello," he says. He must not have been awake for very long. "What can I do for you?"

The heebie-jeebies she gets from him is coming from her general distrust of e _veryone_ , she's realized. He's done nothing to her except try to help. Even if he is somehow connected deeply to the Presidency, his role is to be a doctor. That's the only one he's fulfilling.

"I don't think it's broken," she starts, holding out her wrist. "Sprained, maybe? I can't tell."

She winds up sitting in one chair of many, a room before the one he must be staying in. Tarquin ends up perched against the table right behind her, anxiously leaning over her shoulder as if something serious is going on. Dr. Arranmore drags a chair in front of her to take a better look, carefully taking her wrist into both hands and turning it this way and that.

Doctors in Three weren't the most gentle things. She only got the flu once when she was living there, but they had been downright nasty about it. All over the flu.

He's nicer, she thinks. She hopes.

"You're right, I don't think it is broken," he agrees. "Not with the range of motion you have. There's swelling and some slight bruising, but the pain isn't too bad?"

"It just aches a little."

"Alright. Well, I don't have a brace on hand but I can wrap it and give you something easy for the pain. After that just try to keep it as immobile as possible. If the swelling gets any more noticeable, or the pain, you can ice it for some period of time. But if the pain worsens come back to me, and we'll see what else we can do. For now though I don't believe x-rays are necessary; you may have some microscopic tears, but nothing serious."

It all sounds very professional, and thorough enough. More than she knew, definitely. Like she said - biology wasn't really her thing. She hardly knows when something's wrong with her and when something isn't. The difference isn't even obvious anymore.

The pull of the compression bandage around her wrist, when Dr. Arranmore finally gets there, actually feels a little comforting. It's easy watching him do it, a repeated motion. He knows what he's doing.

Tarquin had been watching, she knew, but she glances at him then and he's off in space again. It feels like he's there more often than his feet are on the ground.

"Um," she sounds, nearly wincing at how awkward it comes out. "What you said, about something to help me sleep, could I still do that?"

"Of course. If you'd like to."

She doesn't. She's not sleeping perfectly, but at least she is in some respect. Tarquin's snapped back to attention, now, and when she peeks over her shoulder he's staring at her. Dr. Arranmore looks up, fingers stilling around her wrist, and glances between the two of them several times before she sees the click in his brain. Tarquin's the first to drop his gaze back to the floor, and Dr. Arranmore quickly finishes up the rest of his job.

And no one says anything.

She's not going to force him; it's not her thing to force. And maybe it won't help, she doesn't know. It's not like she's the doctor here. But maybe it's worth it in the long run if it can't get any worse than it already is.

Something needs to be done. If not this, then something else.

Dr. Arranmore pushes a clip through the rest of the bandages, holding them together. "If you'd like to talk to me privately, Tarquin, we can do that."

Ria goes abnormally still and focuses too much attention to depositing her own wrist safely back into her lap while Tarquin fidgets behind her. She wants to look at him, but who knows what that'll do. Everything feels too risky.

"Okay?" Tarquin says. "Okay, yeah."

"Only if you want."

"Yeah," he repeats. "Yeah, we can."

Okay, that's her cue to go. She rockets up so fast she nearly hits one or both of them as she navigates out. Tarquin catches her by the elbow before she can complete her exit, stopping her just in front of the door. It doesn't feel as weighty as it did earlier.

"Are you going to sleep?" he asks.

"I was planning on it."

"Okay," he says. "Okay, that's fine."

He lets go. It takes a moment, she notices, and his hand slides away almost as if in defeat. That's his entire posture, really. Dr. Arranmore is watching too, trying and failing to be subtle about it. It's probably good that a doctor's looking at him, or at least attempting to converse with him. There's only so much _she_ can do, but maybe he can actually get somewhere.

"I'll leave my door open, if you want to—"

"Okay," he interrupts. "Okay."

Broken record, it sounds like. Okay is a safe word. Easy to say.

Not entirely terrible.

Ria vacates with an unnecessary amount of speed and closes the door behind her for good measure, fleeing back upstairs to her room. She really was planning on going to bed for however long it takes to make her feel like a relatively normal person again, but this time she leaves her door unlocked. She wasn't inclined to do that before, but it's different now.

It takes her longer than she expected, so maybe the conversation isn't all terrible. She lies awake for a while under the blankets, facing the door. She's almost properly asleep when it finally cracks open and Tarquin slips inside. He's a blur in the darkness, but she still sees him pause, considering where to go, before he curls up into himself in the chair far off in the corner of the room. It's the same one he didn't sleep in the first night they were here, too.

Sometimes she still feels as sick as she did that night, as drained and cried out.

But not right now.

"Are you gonna try something?" she asks quietly. He puts his head on his knees, but doesn't look her way. She can't really see him much anyway.

"He's going to pick you up something in an hour. And something for me too, I guess."

"That's good."

He nods. She can't tell if he looks convinced or not. She's too tired to wonder too, unfortunately for them both. She feels bad going to sleep but there's really no other choice with how heavy she is. How heavy she _feels._

"Night," she murmurs.

He tilts his head towards hers, and she closes her eyes. "Morning."

She smiles, just before she falls asleep. It's been a long time since that happened.

* * *

We're... sort of moving into the last act now? I know having a last act at all with this many chaps is frankly horseshit, but we're getting there!

Here's to hoping that everyone had a Merry Christmas and even happier holidays. If not I hope better things are to come. I'll see you all in 2020.

Until next time.


	53. How To Make Monsters

L: The Capitol - Rose Point Estate.

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17  
Applicant #13**

* * *

It's a very weird day, to say the least.

Or night, even.

She sleeps through most of the time that everyone else is awake. It was half past eight when she went to bed and she wakes up just before seven; apparently she needed it more than she even thought.

The place is quiet. Too quiet, as commonplace as that sounds. No one else is awake that she can tell and there's nothing to do, surely even less now that they're actively being investigated. All she can do is the mundane. She showers and finds Tycho to make her more food than she can even stuff inside herself. Nyx only seems to seek her out when she's eating, but even he's missing in action. Probably tired, too.

She's not even sure if everyone is asleep or just holed up in their rooms.

If they are, she's not gonna be the one to stop them. People handle things in different ways, and she handles hers by doing everything she can think to do, and then she goes wandering. She investigates every hallway, every door that isn't locked or that doesn't appear to be actively lived in. She even heads outside after a while with nothing to show for it and loops her way through all the gardens, past the cottage in the back, and even finds a trickle of a stream that eventually leads into a larger creek, babbling away over all of the rocks.

It's pretty, don't get her wrong. It's just so much. Even before they moved to Eight their house in the Capitol wasn't _that_ big. They had moved somewhere smaller after her mother died so it wouldn't feel so empty all the time.

Her dad had filled up that space well, she thinks. He wasn't loud, not anywhere near her level, but he was always present.

Or was, anyway.

She stays by the creek for a long while. It's not even like she's ever been a huge nature fanatic. It's just quiet here, and there's no chance another stranger is going to roll up and drag her away without so much of a choice. She kicks a few pebbles by the brim into the water; it's deeper than she would've thought for the gentle flow of it all. Isn't everything just worse than it really looks?

Besides that, though, she sits. Walks around a little ways. There's nothing else back here - the woods start to get thicker, and she's not one for venturing in too far.

She considers going back in once, just after it gets dark. It doesn't seem like there's a point.

Behind her, not far down the path, the hanging light outside the cottage's front door flickers on.

It was always a matter of time.

She hears the footsteps and stays still anyway. The rock she's chosen to sit on is large and flat, more than big enough for two people. Pandora approaches nearly silent and stays standing, lingering about two or three feet back.

"You've been out here for a while," she comments.

"Nothing better to do."

Pandora may not have been getting interrogated all of last night, but she stayed up to collect all of them and bring them back. She stayed up to make sure they were safe. Judging by her voice she was was sleeping not long ago too.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Shoot."

"I know Soran was in the library when they took him, but the four of you... where were you trying to go?"

Emmi blinks a few times, and then turns to look at her. Luckily she doesn't look accusing. Emmi's not sure she could handle a scolding like she didn't get out of third period unscathed. It does look sort of obvious, though. Not one of them was even trying to feign sleep, they were all fully dressed and ready to head out the nearest door or window, whatever it took.

"Can we actually trust you?" she asks.

"Of course."

It sounds so easy. She'd be lying if she didn't say she felt like a fool for believing it.

A fool she is, then.

"I think we found out who did this to all of us. I don't know how far Soran's got into his digging, but we looked into all of the Sentinels, and we matched up a name. Kestrel Rhodelle."

" _Kestrel_?" she says back, tone incredulous. "What do you mean?

"There was a Khia Rhodelle among the ten that hunted us. I don't—"

"Oh my god," Pandora interrupts. "Oh my god, she told me last year she had a sister who went missing when they were younger. She said the Peacekeepers told her parents that they found traces of her blood in the woods outside the fence but they never found a body."

"Because she ended up in Two," Emmi finishes. "And then she ended up with Carnelia, somehow. And now she's dead."

"Shit," Pandora mutters. "She's not like that, though, she's never shown any signs of—"

"Of what?" Emmi cuts in. "Of being murderous, hell-bent on revenge, helping her sister that she thought was dead for years? How would you have seen any of that coming in the first place?"

"She's not a malicious person."

"You don't know that," she insists. "If you met me with no pre-existing knowledge of what had happened, would you think I'm malicious? _You don't know_. It's not your fault, that's not what I'm saying. It's not anyone's fault but hers."

"If it _was_ her. We don't have any concrete proof."

"Then we need to get some."

Pandora looks about ready to rip her own hair out, and Emmi can't fault her for that. The stress is migrating and now she's beginning to get an even bigger dose of it than before. It's only a matter of time now before Evander gets it, and then Crynn. The whole damn house will be infected by the time they accomplish anything.

"I can talk to her," Pandora says. "I'll get her to come here."

"And do what?"

"I don't know. But I'll talk to her."

"She's dangerous."

"We don't know that."

"If she did this, she'll have no problem killing you too."

"Better me than one of you guys. If you're right and it _is_ her then the last thing I'm going to do is let her near any of you."

She's truly a saint, this one. For all the complaining Soran does about it he truly landed the sibling jackpot. It's not like she would know, really, but she gets the feeling that not everyone else is so lucky. Pandora barely knows him and she'd still fall on the sword for him with zero hesitation, no questions asked. She's too honorable. It'll get her killed one day.

Sooner than they think, maybe.

"What can we do in the meantime?"

"We all need to talk," Pandora says. "Could you go and wake everyone up, if they're not already?"

She nods. "Why?"

"There's too much going on - there's no use in spreading ourselves thin anymore. We started working on a list of everyone it could be - if it's _not_ Kestrel then it's someone on there, and we need to keep at it until we prove that, just in case. One of us needs to always be on it. I want everyone to know what's going on with Kestrel, too. And we need to talk about what's happening now that this morning went the way it did."

"So something _is_ happening," she says, refusing to address it as a question. It was never one in her mind. They weren't doing all of that for no reason, just to waste money and resources, even more precious time. They had a goal in mind when they rounded them all up at the Estate this morning, and it wasn't just a game.

It may still feel like it, but it never was to begin with.

Something really is happening.

Pandora nods, an echo of Emmi's just a minute ago. Unlike Emmi she stays silent on the issue; it probably is better to get it all out when everyone's listening. No use in repeating it.

"We'll meet in the library," she says instead. "I'll be up in a few minutes."

The speed in which she hurries back to the cottage and closes the door behind her is unlike how she came out. That was slow, unhurried. This is the frantic pace of someone who just realized how much there is to deal with.

Emmi contemplates sitting there for a long minute and never getting up, never having to deal with this. She contemplates jumping in the creek and drowning herself too.

She does neither of those things. Instead she gets up with a sigh and turns back up the Estate.

And to imagine she thought that she might actually get to sleep at a half-decent time tonight.

Jokes on her, she guesses.

* * *

 **Soran Faerber, 19  
Applicant #8**

* * *

He hears something long before he properly wakes.

He doesn't know what it is. Doesn't fucking care either, if he's being perfectly honest. It has to have been hours since he fell asleep, or possibly days, but it's not a big deal. All he knows is that he's comfortable and warm and he actually slept no matter how long it was for, so he's not moving.

The noise is the only thing he hears for a long while, so he figures it's safe to do so. Everything is still heavy enough that he could be back out in seconds if he let himself go; he's also so conveniently tired that his body hasn't started to act up on him again. He's sure it will, once he's awake, but it feels safe for now. Safe is good. He likes it more than he'll ever admit aloud.

Suddenly, voices.

 _Why voices?_

They're close, too. One of them is Icarus. He rolls over all the way and into him. Or at least Soran's hoping it's him, because he still hasn't bothered looking, and it was dark as all fuck last time he checked anyway.

Icarus was already holding onto him before all of this was happening, but his arm now readjusts over Soran's side and tightens. He contemplates rolling back over, but he can hear now. The other voice belongs to Emmi, he's certain. He's close to really fucking out of it levels, but not quite there anymore. Why is she in here, though? Could she not be? He'd like to go back to sleep.

"It's been _sixteen hours_ ," she hisses. Oh, that's funny. They went to sleep in the early morning - is it night again, then? Hilarious. "We need to talk."

"Who? Me and you?"

"All of us," she says. "Pandora wants us all to meet in the library."

He groans. That's about all he can get out. He rolls again, furthering the momentum until he's laid out on his stomach, face buried in the part of the pillow where he's sure Icarus' head was a moment ago. He has no clue where it is now.

"Tell that to him," Icarus says.

"Is he even awake?"

"Yeah. He wasn't fidgeting when he was asleep."

No, because he was playing dead, thank you very much. Playing dead or wishing he was, whatever works, and he's going to continue to do so until he's forced otherwise.

"You know, I liked you better when you were fighting," Emmi informs them. She's the only one. "I couldn't get rid of you then and now you won't even listen to me."

"Hey," Icarus says flatly. "I never said I wouldn't listen to you."

"Get up, then."

"I will! Can you just give me a few minutes? And stop poking me."

Soran turns an inch to the right and cracks open one of his eyes. The blurry shape that is Emmi appears to be repeatedly poking Icarus in the leg and then backing up just enough that he can't kick her in retribution. It would be ten times more hilarious if he still wasn't so out of it. It's good to know that he's not the only one that can get on Icarus' nerves without even trying.

"Don't you dare go back to sleep," Emmi says. "Library. Ten minutes."

"Fifteen," he mumbles, and she jabs him in the leg too before she departs. She slams the door so loud he jolts.

Icarus flops back down and nearly knocks their heads together, readjusting with a heavy sigh. He definitely appears to be awake, and Soran is too, unfortunately. If he had enough time he could probably go back to sleep, but he's not getting that long. The sooner they get up and go the sooner he can crawl back in here and never get up ever again.

"You can stay here, if you want," Icarus offers.

"Has it really been sixteen hours?"

"Apparently."

No wonder he feels the way he does right now, so sleep-heavy and disoriented. The desire to get up is far off in the negatives, but it must be at least semi-important if Emmi barged in here to wake them up. That means he probably ought to get up and find out what it is. It's not like the bed is going to go anywhere far away while he's gone.

"I'll go. Just stay here."

"No, I'm coming," he insists. "Just give me a few minutes."

Icarus hasn't moved either so the sense of urgency really isn't there with either of them. It's that or Icarus isn't so inclined to leave him, which is also pretty likely. Regardless of being asleep or not he knows how close he stayed all night. There's still an arm over him too even though they've both moved around so much. The longer Icarus keeps it there the less inclined _he's_ going to feel to get up.

"How do you feel?" Icarus asks. He's still trying to focus on keeping his eyes open.

"Fine right now."

"You might not be, later on. Or another day. And that's fine."

It's not to him, but at least it is to someone. At least if he collapses again there's someone willing to scoop him back up, or at least make him sleep. Hopefully the solid sixteen hours helped. It feels like they did, but it might just be too early to tell. If they're about to have yet another serious conversation it could all go back downhill before it ever even got back to the top.

Soran sits up in one great heave, finally dislodging Icarus' arm, though it only slides down to land across his knees. He's awake, definitely, but his eyes are still a little blurry.

He can _feel_ Icarus staring at him, whether his are blurry or not. Only half of him wants to call him out for it, because the other half doesn't really care. It's not something he's ever going to stop, and it's even worse right now.

He looks over his shoulder and down at him. How he envies Icarus' yet to be disturbed comfortable state. "You never told me why you came to find me."

"'Cause it wasn't important."

"Is it not now, then?"

"It's about who did this to us," Icarus says, leaning up onto his elbows. "We think we might have figured out who it was."

"So you're telling me you figured it out before me?"

"Precisely, yeah. More people, though. More brainpower too. I think you lost a lot of brain cells out there."

"Didn't have very many to begin with."

Icarus huffs out a laugh, sitting up next to him. It is quite possible that he has even less than he did before, but that would be a truly terrifying prospect to come to terms with. He's not up for that just yet. Or anything, really.

He's not sure what, but Icarus is about to do _something_ whether it be good or bad, so he crawls for the edge of the bed before he can make his move, rocketing to his feet at a pace that is much too quick for everything that he is right now. All the sleep has made him weak in all four limbs, and even his brain is processing things more slowly than usual. It's already pretty solid to begin with.

"For someone not very inclined to get up you sure do look eager about this," Icarus points out, getting up as well.

"Eager my ass," he says. "I just want to go have this adult conversation or whatever so I can go back to sleep."

"Are you going like that?"

He looks down at himself. Yes, he's been wearing these clothes for way too long now and yes, he knows half his hair is sticking up in a different direction, but he never cared about those things before and he certainly doesn't care about them now. If they want to talk and if they want him there, this is how they're getting him. Obviously Icarus would never be caught dead going somewhere looking anything less than magnificent, but he's not Icarus, and that's a damn good thing.

"I'm literally going right back to sleep after this," he reiterates. He's not changing just to go back to bed.

Icarus just looks amused though, in that ridiculously dopey sort of way, so he probably looks even more rabid than he thought. Oh well.

"Stop staring at me like that," he insists.

"Like what?"

He rolls his eyes and gets out into the hallway before Icarus can do anything about that. There's no great hurry to follow him, no shoot forward like he almost expected. Icarus still ends up by his side regardless and grabs a hold of his hand, lacing their fingers together. At first he thought it was just a natural thing, like dominant hands, but it's more than that. Icarus always goes for the left, always goes for the scarring and where his fingers are still a little on the numb side.

He still hasn't said it aloud.

"You know, I don't think it's ever healing properly," he says. Icarus looks at him, and then down at their hands. It's better definitely, but not perfect. It's just a gut feeling that it never will be again.

He waits for an apology that doesn't come, an unnecessary one that doesn't have any merit.

Maybe they've just finally figured out that the apologies don't have to be constant.

"Are you okay with that?" Icarus asks finally. He doesn't look too certain about that himself, looking down at their joined hands with a worried crease at his brow. You'd think it was his hand that was permanently damaged, but it's probably for the best that it isn't.

Soran would never be hearing the end of it.

"I am, yeah," he says. It's easier to say than he thought it would be. He expected to say it like his throat was full of thorns and it doesn't even hurt.

He really is okay.

Icarus brings their joined hands up to kiss his knuckles, just once, and it's over before he can even blink. This whole casual intimacy thing and the weirdness of it all still gets to him some days, but it's not a bad thing. He's figuring it out. If anything it only proves him right; this is intentional and deliberate, something that Icarus has always chosen to do and that Soran feels as if he'll keep doing.

It proves that it's real, too. That it's a good thing.

And he's starting to believe that it might be, too.

* * *

 **Tarquin Vierra, 16  
Applicant #4**

* * *

The look on Pandora's face when she walks into the library says a whole hell of a lot.

Unfortunately for him and his sleep-deprived brain, he can't pick any of it out. He looks at Ria to see if maybe she's getting further than he has, but it doesn't appear to be going that way for anyone. Emmi looks maybe one total percent clued in above the rest of them. Soran's eyes are closed, though Tarquin suspects he's listening more than he'll ever let on. He wishes he could close his so easy.

Icarus just looks bored out of his skull, or maybe he's just still that tired. Both, if he was guessing. It is now past midnight after all.

He didn't sleep a wink during the day, not even holed up in Ria's room. He was too scared of the thought of it happening again and in front of Ria, no less. For all he knew he was going try and go out her window next. She had looked relieved to see him still there when she had woken up, like she was afraid he might not have been.

He was afraid of that too, sometimes.

It hadn't lasted long, because Emmi had burst in. She had woken his brain up, though. His eyes were dangerously heavy, trying to shut no matter how hard he fought to keep them open. He just couldn't risk it.

Dr. Arranmore ought to have gotten him those pills by now. He'll have to search him out after this, or maybe tomorrow morning. He shouldn't go around harassing strangers in the middle of the night.

"Alright, I've got a lot to get out, so I'd appreciate if we could hold all commentary until the end," she starts. He nods, almost obediently, when she turns her eyes on him. Everyone else does the same.

"First of all, and Soran knows this, but I'm pregnant. So apologies if I'm not acting myself."

Hm. Well, there's a _lot_ he could say to that, most of which lines up with how no one's exactly themselves these days, but it's a different scenario altogether. He keeps his mouth shut.

"Second, I know about Kestrel."

"Who?" Soran mutters.

"Kestrel Rhodelle. She's the Twelve that represents in New Haven. And apparently, as the four of you figured out, she has a familial connection to one of the Sentinels that tried to kill you all."

"Which one?" Soran asks. Apparently they've given up on this commentary thing early.

"The one that you dragged out of the car," Icarus says under his breath. Pandora makes a face. Soran makes one that doesn't seem very ashamed about it.

"I'll have you know her hand was missing _before_ I did that," he says, as if it really matters. "So I'm not taking blame for that."

" _Anyway_ ," Pandora says slowly. God bless her patience. "I'm going to call her here. I'm not going to tell her anything right off the bat. I want to see if I can get anything out of her before I start giving her information willingly. Someone is going to talk to her with me - I won't be alone, but none of you are getting involved in it. Not on the off chance that she really is dangerous."

It feels less like an off chance and more like something that's likely at this point, though maybe that's his desire for this to all be over talking. If it really is Kestrel, then they've figured it out. There's no more work to do. Not in that regard, anyway.

"Third, I've hired someone. Not a doctor, exactly. She has good credentials. We've got her arriving tomorrow morning if any of you would like to talk to her."

So a therapist, is what she's saying. Pandora's hired a shrink and won't outright call the woman that because it's a scary, bad word and all of them will run from it as fast as they can. She lingers on all of them when she says it, but he can't shake the feeling that she stares at him the longest. Has Dr. Arranmore spoken to her about the conversation they had earlier today? Yesterday? Whatever it is. He has to have, right? Whether or not the person he reports to is in this building he has to be telling Pandora some things.

It's not good, her knowing all of that. He doesn't want her dragged down too.

"Fourth," she starts.

"There's a fourth?" Emmi asks flatly.

"This is the big one. The big, bad one," she says. Tarquin feels the deep breath she takes in her own chest but can't hope to prepare himself for it. "There's a reason Crynn isn't here right now. He's off researching. He's never actually represented anyone before but we've got two days to try and spin this any other way than what we've got right now."

"Spin what, exactly?"

"We received documents mid-day yesterday. Official ones. They list all of the criminal charges against you and the disclosure contains all of the evidence regarding those charges. Mostly first and second degree murder, some voluntary and involuntary manslaughter. A few aggravated assault and battery charges. Everything you told them really. And you're being called up in two days."

Okay, he might throw up. Should he try and run out before that happens? He doesn't think he'd make it. Half the room looks like they want to cry and the other half looks like they want to hit something. He sort of wants to do both, and _then_ throw up.

And here he and his wishful thinking were, imagining this as just about done. How stupid can he be?

"I won't lie to you - it's bad," she says. "You _are_ guilty. No judge or jury would ever be convinced otherwise. Crynn and I were talking about spinning it all as a not guilty plea but it won't do any good. It would look... sociopathic, to say the least. You'll turn away the last of the support you have."

"So we're _pleading_ guilty because we are?" Emmi asks. "They won't even need a trial, then."

"Correct."

"We're going to get sentenced."

"That's how it's looking at the moment, yes," she confirms. "But there's no telling what the sentence might be. The easier we make this the more lenient they may be."

"Or they'll kill us," Soran says.

"I'm not going to let that happen."

" _You_ don't get a choice," he points out. "If they want us dead, we'll be dead."

"We still have two days," she reminds him. "We could figure something out in those two days. And if I talk to Kestrel and it was her... that could work out in our favor, if we have someone else to blame."

He doesn't want anyone blamed. He doesn't care who they are, doesn't care what they did. At the end of the day they didn't force him to kill thirteen people. He did that on his own. Maybe they're at fault for the deaths but that doesn't make him any less of a monster. He has no one to blame that for but himself, and no one else can either.

But no one else has thirteen, either.

"What if it's not Kestrel?" Emmi asks. "What then?"

"We started a list," she says. "We're going to keep on it, one of us, always. If it's not Kestrel then we're going to figure out who did it, that I can promise you."

Promises just feel so empty. Promises won't help if they're all sentenced to die, and figuring it out won't either. They'll be gone, in some sense of the word, and whoever did this will be out there roaming around like nothing ever happened with a smile on their face. They'll get to live while he dies, whether it be immediate or in a prison cell.

He really does feel sick. His head has been pounding for a while now, but this is different. Everything inside him is turning. Maybe he _does_ need those pills more than he thought. Maybe he needs them _now._

He gets up and his chair screeches against the floor, a truly obnoxious sound that has everyone turning to him instantly.

"I'll do the list later if that's uh, if that's okay," he says. It's awesome that his tongue has stopped working, and his legs as well. "I'm gonna go for now, though? If that's okay?"

Pandora nods, not necessarily looking the most okay with it, but she knows better than to stop them. She's learning.

Ria gives him a look but he must be able to convey a significant one enough back to her, enough to say _please_ _don't_ , because she doesn't get up after him. He's fine, he doesn't actually need anybody to coddle and comfort him. He just wants out of here, is all.

And he really, really wants to find Dr. Arranmore.

* * *

 **Sorscha Livingston, 41  
Vice President of Panem; formerly of District Five**

* * *

"So, how are they doing?" she asks into the phone.

"Doing?" Drexel repeats. "How would you be doing, Sorscha?"

"I hope I'll never have to find out."

"You'd rather _pray_ you don't. If you'd seen them - really _seen_ them, you would."

She already does, sometimes. She's never been a particularly religious person because that wasn't the way she was raised, but a lot of people in Five found merit in it, especially once the Games ended. It was something to focus on. Sometimes it made her feel better, though sometimes it didn't. This just seemed like something that was worth praying for.

She had prayed, too, that the last people who would ever have to deal with this were the nine survivors of the 160th.

They hadn't gotten so fortunate there.

Drexel is right, too. She hasn't really seen them, not like he has. He's the one that's been lingering because she brought him up here to deal with it, he's the one that's given them all a clean bill of health if you disregard what happened to Isperia when they were taken in. She had seen the security footage, and she was the reason why that officer was now looking for new means of employment.

It's hard, when you don't really know. But she's trying.

"I know you said I could take my leave at the end of the week, but I'd rather not," Drexel says. "If you'd grant me permission."

"Why is that?"

"There's a massive different between the physical and mental health, here. There's a line. Miss Quinn informed me that she's hired on a counselor to stay at the Estate, but I'd feel better if I was here as well. Not full-time. I could get a car here once I close the clinic for the night."

Here's the thing, with Drexel. She knows him, but not really. They weren't the best of friends back in school, not even close. They knew each other. Conversed pretty actively, but not enough to cross any of their own lines. They never went to each other's houses, never spent time with each other on the weekends. The closest she ever got was the three years in a row she ended up standing behind his sister at the reaping. But never any further.

He's a good doctor, that she knows. It's really all she has confirmation on. He's more Dr. Arranmore than Drexel, at least these days.

"Do you think you can get them to agree with that?" she asks.

"Someone, certainly. I don't think there's any harm in me sticking around."

If he's lasted this long around the five of them then there's something built there, small and fragile as it may be. It's better than bringing in an entirely new person. This supposed counselor may not even have time to do their job if things go the way Tate wants them to in the next few days.

In less then forty-eight hours they have a court date. In less than forty-eight hours there may not be any point to getting them a counselor at all.

Or maybe they'll need one even more.

"Sorscha?"

"Sorry," she says. "We're you saying something?"

"Will you talk to President Archeron, then? About extending my contract. I don't need any more money, but I'd like to know I have approval from his end."

"Of course." She won't, really. She didn't ask Tate's explicit permission to hire him in the first place, because he delegated the task to her. She didn't have to ask permission if it was her thing to commit to.

Besides, Tate hadn't asked anyway. He probably didn't want those kids having any more help, even if it was just someone making sure they were safe.

Safe and fit to stand trial, more like, even though there weren't any explicit plans to stand trial.

From what Drexel has told her, though, or at least heavily implied, they may be physically able to handle it but she's not so sure about their mental stability. The police got the information they wanted at the end of the day, heavy confirmation on what they already knew. What they couldn't get they forced out. What doesn't change no matter what they know is that those five kids are still responsible for thirty or so odd deaths. It doesn't seem like that high of a number until she thinks about it.

Sorscha has always tried to think of this as rationally as she could. Thirteen of them were from the group out in the valley. Another large handful of them were Sentinels. They killed their fellow applicants, too, but she doesn't believe they went in there thinking that way. She'll never believe that.

She keeps going back to the same thing, too - what would she do? What would have happened if she had been reaped way back when?

She would have fought tooth and nail. She would have died screaming, and there probably would have been someone else's blood on her hands, and she would have been sorry but she would have done it anyway.

She'd be a killer, too.

There's been so many stories. So many people calling them monsters - Tate, too. It hurts the most when he says it.

But they're not. They are her, and she is them.

She even hopes her own children would have fought back the same way.

"I'm turning in for the night," Drexel says. "Good-night, Sorscha. Let me know when you speak to him."

"I will," she promises. "Good-night."

She hangs up, the click loud in her otherwise silent office. Everyone else here turned in long ago. She was surprised to get a call from him at this hour, but the Estate works differently, she supposes. It's got quite a few things living under it's roof, now.

But not monsters. Killers yes, but never monsters.

And they'll be killers too, by the end of it all, if this goes to someone else's plan.

* * *

Happy one year to this stupid behemoth of a story. The temptation to just upload the rest of it in one go on the first was a strong one, I'll admit, but I don't think I could bear to. It's not a long way off now, anyhow.

Until next time.


	54. Your True Colors

LI: The Capitol - Rose Point Estate.

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16  
Applicant #17**

* * *

The logical thing to do when it's more than slightly after midnight is sleep.

So that's exactly what she does.

And it works, too, for roughly six or so hours. Considering she slept most of the previous day away it's not all that surprising. It is nice, for a while, to just lay there while trying to forget everything's that going to happen even sooner than she thought.

There's one thing that gets her out of bed, admittedly, and it's Tarquin.

Once he left the library last night, or this morning, she didn't see him again. Presumably he found Dr. Arranmore and collected whatever was brought for him - she really ought to do that herself, but her wrist isn't causing her too much pain. She'll do it eventually if it begins troubling her.

Half of her expected to wake up and find Tarquin in the corner of the room again, silent and hunched over like a weird little gargoyle. She _had_ left her door unlocked after a few minutes of internal debate. If she locked the door and he tried to come in, it might chase him away and force him to go to sleep. In the end she had decided it was too cruel; if he came looking it was only because he was desperate, and that didn't deserve chasing away.

She found him half out of a window, for crying out-loud. Chasing him away would be like asking for it.

Something in her almost dreads heading to his room because of that. It can't be any worse than last time, can it? She'd like to think that way. She's not sure it's smart, but there's not much of that going around these days anyway. If she was smart she probably wouldn't get herself involved in anybody else's drama like the good old days, where she hardly talked to anyone unless they spoke to her first. It was weird to be so disconnected from such things, but good at the same time. Nothing could hurt her then.

She's already hurting, though. Everyone is.

All she can do is try to make it better.

She knocks on his door a few times but doesn't get a response, holding her breath the entire time. Maybe he's still sleeping. She _did_ wait several hours after she woke up to head this way, but there's still a chance of that, sleep-deprived as he was.

Ria allows herself to crack the door open an entire two inches and gets an eyeful of absolutely nothing except the empty room. The bed _looks_ as if it was slept in, but who knows if that's really the truth. The bathroom door is almost entirely closed, open about as much as this door is that she's holding onto, but it's the light that's coming from inside that gives her a little bit of hope. There's a bit of shuffling, too. Enough for there to be life.

That's... good.

"Tarquin?" she calls. There's a swear and the immediate sound of something bouncing to the floor. The door cracks open a few more inches as he bumps into it, his shadow spilling out into the bedroom. He eventually retrieves whatever hit the floor and then pokes his head out to look at her. It takes her a long few seconds to process what it is she's seeing; there's a towel draped over his shoulders and half of his hair is slicked to his head. There are little smears of black at the very tops of his ears and across his forehead but she chooses not to mention it.

"What are you doing?" she asks. It seems pretty obvious.

"Dyeing my hair?" he says. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"I," she starts, but he ducks back into the bathroom before she can get anything else out. She knew that, of course. It just wasn't what she was expecting.

She edges into the bathroom after him, careful not to startle him again. There's another dot of black on the floor where he must have dropped the bottle and she scrubs her sock over it until it's gone once again.

"Why?" she asks, sitting down on the edge of the tub. There's stuff absolutely everywhere, strewn over the counter and into the sink. There's an extra pair of gloves resting on the back of the toilet.

He shrugs. "I mentioned it to Tycho a few days ago. I do it at least once a month, you know? Like every color of the rainbow. It feels like forever since I've done it. I mentioned it, didn't tell him to or anything, but he made me breakfast this morning and just gave me a bag full of the stuff. All brand new, different colors."

"And you picked black," she says flatly. "Is that black?"

"Yeah," he answers. "I don't know, it just seemed sort of fitting. Is that weird?"

It does seem that way, at least until she really thinks about it, and then she finds herself cracking a smile. It almost gets hard not to laugh. It really is fitting, and she gets it. Tarquin's a theater kid through and through, constantly changing to better fit the part of the month. Now there's nothing to play at except how he feels on the inside, and well...

Black is probably fairly accurate. His hair was already growing in close to that color, if not exact, anyway.

Tarquin smiles too. "See? Makes total sense."

She nods. He doesn't look terrible, this time. She loathed to admit but he did a few days ago, when she would look at him and wonder when he was going to finally collapse. Don't get her wrong, he still looks tired, but not so much.

And he's focusing enough to do something. He ate breakfast this morning. Interacted with a human being that isn't one of them.

That's really good. She used to say that about herself.

"Did you sleep?" she asks. He doesn't break from the mirror, full concentration mode on and everything, but he doesn't go all twitchy on her.

"I did, yeah," he says, as if he's still surprised by it himself. "It wasn't super long, or anything, but I fell asleep really easily. Whatever he picked up for me to take must've worked. I think it did."

There's something brighter about him, more energetic. It's weird considering how he's going darker but he doesn't seem so dead on his feet anymore. A little sleep is better than none, but this is all the mental game. If he's convinced it's helping, if he thinks things are getting better and easier, than they will. That's just how things like that work.

"That's really good," she murmurs, and he nods, swiping away an accidentally placed black streak against the side of his neck.

Finally someone else is making progress. That's better than good.

Ria is definitely hungry enough to head downstairs for some food, but she feels compelled to stay. Someone has to supervise and make sure that he doesn't completely trash the bathroom. He looks a tad on the manic side, moving too fast for the eye to properly track, but that may just be the excitement that comes with familiarity. This is something he's used to.

"Do you have any more boxes of that?" she asks, letting nearly ten minutes of silence pass between them before she pipes up. Tarquin turns to her with a raised eyebrow, abandoning the bottle of dye at the sink's edge.

"Just wondering," she continues.

His smile is so bright it could probably blind someone. "Really? Would you seriously let me?"

"It was a _thought_ ," she says slowly, but he's already rooting through the bag with both black-stained, gloved hands. Half of them end up on the floor in his quest to find the right one but he finally comes free with a box identical to the one already on the counter, waving it about triumphantly. He slams it down right next to her as if proving a point.

"I don't know, the blue hair seems very you," he points out.

"Because it is. It's only been natural or blue. Nothing else."

It's been blue for three years, now. Her mother wasn't the biggest fan of it, she knows. She only kept it for as long as she did because it felt right, so undeniably her that changing it would've been akin to blasphemy. Right now, though, she could see it as something else. A change to fit the shift that's occurred in everything else. Tarquin's right - it really is fitting.

He finishes running the dye through the last of his untouched hair, coating it several times over. Eventually he peels the pair of gloves off and tosses them in the trash, picking up the new box. He turns to her, a nervous smile threatening to disappear from his face.

She doesn't feel like she can let that happen.

"One condition," she says. "You don't mess it up."

His face lights up like he's won the lottery. What an improvement that is.

"Deal," he agrees. "I would never."

Anyone else she may not trust just like that, but well, he saved her life. She sort of has to.

Besides, it's not her life. It's just hair.

If he can do that, he better be able to do this.

* * *

 **Tarquin Vierra, 16  
Applicant #4**

* * *

Every time he ends up responsible for something Ria seems to be the recipient.

He doesn't care if bits of his skin end up stained for a few days or if his feet hurt from how long he stood in one spot in the bathroom. For her he starts by dragging in a chair from the bedroom for her to sit on - that can end up stained for all he cares, because it's ugly anyway. He digs out a new towel and takes special care to mix everything together.

He probably should have taken more care to notice how long he's got left until he has to wash it out, but he'll figure it out. He's done it a hundred times before and his hair hasn't fallen out. What's one more?

She looks vaguely suspicious as he wiggles the bottle back and forth over top of her head, staring back at him in the mirror. He'd look at himself like that too if he was on the verge of maybe, possibly messing up something very important.

No, he's not going to. He won't.

"I'm going to look like a freak," Ria predicts. "I already look like a ghost - I'm just making it worse."

"You're not going to look like a freak."

"How do you know?"

"Because I _know_ ," he insists. "I've seen every color under the sun. You'll be fine."

He's only ever had one truly massive disaster in his hair dyeing escapades. The bright, fire engine red they had chosen for Calix's hair had ended up more orange, almost a muddy brown. It had made him howl so loud with laughter that both his parents had come to check on them in the basement, where they found both of them rolling about on the floor like it was the funniest thing that had ever happened.

It was a good thing Calix could roll with the punches. He had even left it like that for a month; by the time it was over it had almost looked like his natural hair color.

It hadn't, really, but he had never told him that. That's what best friends were for.

It's odd to think that he doesn't really have one anymore. Calix knows he's alive - all of his friends do. That doesn't matter anymore, though. They're not all that far apart but it feels like a hundred thousand miles in actuality. He has no access to them no matter how much he wishes he did. Maybe they've just moved on. That's probably for the best. Calix, Arden, Velia... they'll be better off for it. They don't need someone like him around.

He accidentally knocks the tip of the bottle into Ria's ear and she reaches up to swipe away the black before it can stain, wiping her hand across the towel.

"Sorry," he murmurs. She shakes her head, but not enough to dislodge his hands.

"If it helps, I think it'll look cool," he says, trying to distract himself from his own thoughts.

"Cool. Right."

"We have to go to court tomorrow like this."

"Don't remind me."

He doesn't like the reminder either, thank you very much, but at least the image is slightly entertaining. They may not even care, really, but if someone does... the thought is enough to get a smile out of him.

It'll be a nice change from all of this. It's a familiarity thing to him as well, something he did just as easy as sleeping and breathing used to be. Waking up with a bit of sleep under his belt and going on to do this just felt right. For a second he could've been home, up earlier than his parents to practice lines and fix his hair, causing ruckus before they could notice.

It's nice, thinking about it like that. Painful, but nice.

He can't help but wonder how it is for Ria. She's been like this for a while, no doubt. To her this isn't familiar, isn't comforting. It's a great big, weird change in the midst of a bunch of other big, weird things. She just doesn't seem like the type to embrace change all that much, let alone choose it the way she has now. Maybe he wants to forget who he is, forget how easily they picked him out because of his hair, but her...

Why is _she_ doing it? To appease him?

He hopes it's not just that.

"Do you miss the person you used to be?" he asks out of the blue. She looks up from her lap, making a face when she notices the funny, slicked-back state of her hair under his gloved hands. He does. He misses his old self and how it used to be like one would miss a lung, like breathing is hard without it. And it is.

"Not really."

"Why not?"

Ria shrugs. "I don't know. She was weaker, I guess. _I_ was weaker."

"I don't think you were weak."

"Well, you were the only one," she says, managing a half-smile. "Seriously, it's okay. I know what I was."

He doesn't think she was weak, never will, but something is different. She's still quiet most of the time, but she talks to him. She talks to him a lot. She spends time with the others and doesn't completely shy away from it even when things get a little too loud for her liking. He knows that she's trying, that she always is, and that a lot of the time it's working.

Not doing those things before didn't make her weak... she's just growing now, is all.

He wishes he could say the same about himself.

The pills Dr. Arranmore gave him did work, he thinks. He doesn't feel right for needing them, but he slept. Not enough to catch up on everything. Not very deep, either. It was enough that he didn't have any sorts of dreams, good or bad, but when he woke up there was little rest inside him. He had just enough energy to get up and eat, to see this through.

It's sort of fading, now. He doesn't tell her that.

Instead he just finishes up with her hair in otherwise silence. He feels oddly enough like a monkey doing this job, picking through her hair with an intent that he's never felt before, but this is important. If he fucks this up she'll probably kill him in his sleep - and she could, no doubt about it. He'll lose the trust in her speaking so actively to him when it's the one thing that's been keeping him going the most.

"Alright, I think we're all done," he announces.

"Think?"

"Definitely done. And I'm going to wash mine out, so we'll see how this goes."

Ria scoots out of the way, chair and all, to allow him access to the sink. It's hard to see with his head stuffed up underneath the tap but he watches with blurry eyes as inky black water swirls down the drain with every push and pull of his hands. There are little droplets of it splatted all across the counter and sink when he finally pulls his head up, letting the last of the water stream from the ends of his hair. It definitely doesn't _look_ black, but what does he know anymore? He gives a quick few pulls of the towel over his head for good measure before he stands back up. Some stray pieces fall back across his forehead - it's getting longer, too, and they're jet black. His entire head is.

He could look like anyone. How easy it would be to blend into anywhere in the world now and just disappear.

The thought alone is tempting, but impossible.

Ria hums approvingly. "Solid job."

It better be. He looks to her and can catch not a single trace of any blue left on her head already. Hopefully that's a solid job too.

If not, it's probably his life that'll be on the line.

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17  
Applicant #10**

* * *

"Do I have to?" Soran asks.

"No," he answers, at the same time Emmi gets out a _yes_ that's far beyond pushy at this point, descending directly into the territory of a direct order. Evander gives all three of them a particular look that doesn't scream approval, but Icarus is pretty sure they've never gotten one of those.

Soran looks downright confused as to who he should be listening to. Icarus will let him go, if he must. Emmi will probably hit him if he tries.

"Look, I'm not saying _any_ of you have to have a full-blown conversation with the woman, alright?" Evander says. "I just think everyone should meet her. And whether you end up talking to her or not at a later date is frankly none of my business."

Evander's right - it's really not. If he sometimes can't handle what they say candidly Icarus can't imagine he'd like what they'd say to a therapist in secret. Though that's probably the point; he doubts Evander wants to hear it at all.

He doesn't know if he'll ever talk to her, personally. He dealt with a therapist a handful of times after Estella, her sister's recommendation before she up and left One with her parents in tow. The guy was nice, don't get him wrong, he's just not sure it really helped. He isn't sure how this woman is supposed to help either. They've been left alone a lot to process things, to try and work through them. Any fixing needed to be done a long time ago.

She might be too late already.

"If we have to meet her, where are tweedledee and tweedledum?" Emmi asks. "Why is it just us three?"

"I'll go make them do it later."

"He won't," Soran mutters. That's what he figured. The three of them are more pig-headed, more likely to ignore instructions unless forced into it. Ria and Tarquin will eventually feel bad enough about ignoring Evander that they'll just go and do it anyway. It's touching, but it's kind of annoying. Why can't he be lumped in with them instead?

Scratch that. He knows why.

Evander stops just outside the archway to the next room over and turns on them all. "Behave."

" _You_ haven't met her either," Soran points out. "What if she sucks?"

"She doesn't. Pandora's met her. And she has all the right credentials."

That doesn't necessarily mean she's any good, but he keeps his mouth shut. He'll try to behave for as long as he can, for Evander's sake and for whoever this poor therapist is. She's gonna have a lot to deal with if she decides to stick around. He should probably give credit where credit is due - even stepping foot into this building is ballsy for someone with no prior experience in dealing with... whatever this has been.

It's either that, or this woman is very, very dumb.

Evander heads in. Emmi gives them both a very drawn out, exaggerated look and follows. Now that they've both gone he begins to wonder if the two of them could take off and not look back.

The thing is, he feels like Soran should talk to her. They probably all should, but Soran is closer to a definitely after what happened the past few days. It's not his call to make, though. He won't risk setting him off now after he's slept, finally, and progressed into something that isn't a complete and total mess. You couldn't pay him to do something like that. Talking to someone, if he wants to, should be his decision. That's what he's beginning to learn. He can't force any of this.

"Kill me," Soran says, and then tugs away from him after Emmi. Like he said: choices.

He for one lets himself lurk at the back of the room for a minute, trying to assess what's going on. Even from a distance he can tell she's younger than he would have expected, much younger than the man he talked to months ago now. Maybe younger is better? It's easier to relate, that's for sure. She looks nice enough. Non-offensive. At least willing to give it her best shot, which is more than he can say for most people.

What's funny about this, though, is that Evander's staring at her like he just woke up first on Christmas morning. Like it's the best day ever.

Okay, maybe younger isn't better.

Soran turns around and catches his eye. _Why_ , he mouths, and Icarus swallows a laugh. Alright, she's attractive, he'll give Evander that, but yeah. _Why_. He didn't think experiencing love at first sight with their therapist was on anyone's list of tasks to complete today.

She smiles at him from across the room, so he finds it fit to close the last of the distance and at least shake her hand. She never stops smiling.

It's almost sort of eerie, but apparently Evander doesn't think so.

"Shoah Jensen," she tells him. "It's nice to meet you."

"You too." It takes everything in him not to phrase it as question.

He doesn't think she's Capitol-born, but it's hard to tell. She holds herself with the confidence of one but it's hard to tell what else is there, just that it may not be something he's familiar with. Otherwise she really doesn't seem like something to be nervous of. He could come down here and talk to her. It's not like she's going to bite him.

He'll see.

Soran leans in over his shoulder. "If he starts hitting on her I'm leaving."

Emmi snorts so loud that any subtlety they have flees the room and pitches itself out the window. Evander looks like he wants to kill at least one of them, but possible all three. That's hard to tell as well.

They probably can leave. This is all Evander wanted, right? It would be best for the three of them to flee the premises before things get any more awkward. Emmi must be thinking along the same lines, too. She nudges him as if to turn back towards the door, doing so herself. Someone has to take the lead to get them the hell out of here

"What the fuck have you two done?" Emmi asks, foot half-raised as if to begin leaving. Icarus turns to the doorway as well. There are two smaller figures lurking there, near silent as always, staring back at them. It feels like they've been there longer than they have any right to.

Tarquin, completely black-haired, raises his eyebrows. "Nothing?"

By his side Ria looks exactly the same, hair black nearly down to her shoulders, still slightly damp in places.

Yeah, right. _Nothing._

Soran nudges him. "You're next."

"Absolutely not."

Emmi, out of nowhere, starts laughing. Nothing too loud, just a sort of ridiculous little chuckle that she muffles into both hands as she presses them over her face. Evander and Shoah have both stopped staring at each other, finally, to observe whatever the hell's going on between the five of them. Even Icarus isn't sure what to call it, or if it could have a name. It probably doesn't.

It's just weird. Weird, and ridiculous, and entirely them.

It feels as if in this moment it looks like they need therapy now more than ever, but it was already pretty close to that benchmark.

A confirmation of all things is better than nothing.

* * *

 **Kestrel Rhodelle, 25  
Member of the New Haven Federation**

* * *

She's only been up to Rose Point a handful of times.

If she's being honest, she's not sure how to label Pandora and herself when lumped together. She thinks they're friends. They feel like friends? Not friends in the way that she's friends with Waylon and Jordan, but that's different. It's just easier to be friends with people who have been in the same situation as you, District kids who lived in fear of getting reaped every year and who snuck by through the skin of their teeth, spared for some odd reason.

Forming relationships with people from the Capitol is just that. Different. Every day, every month she spends her she spends it trying to adapt.

It's probably the worst hand of all, being a Twelve who spends half the year in the city. She grew up in a two bedroom shack with seven other people living in it, her parents and her grandmother, Khia and Aunt Ruthy, her two younger cousins after her Uncle died in the mines.

She bought an apartment here once she had the money. She almost never spends any time in it.

Jordan and Waylon at least have each other, consistently and constantly. She never has that.

One of the ever-present security guards at this place leads her through the main building and out into the back. She's never been this far. She knows Pandora and Crynn live back here, but she's only ever been with them in other places. It feels too intrusive to be standing just under the hanging light over their front door alone once the guard leaves.

But she's here now, so she knocks.

Crynn opens the door with a little smile, beckoning her inside. She hovers uneasily just inside the door while he closes it behind her. It doesn't feel like she belongs in here. It's too personal.

"Hey," Pandora says, an easiness to her step as she emerges from the kitchen something Kestrel envies great. "Nice to see you."

"You too," she answers. "How has everything been?"

Pandora hums. "Difficult," she settles on.

"But no one else is dead yet, so you're doing something right."

"Apparently," she agrees. "Here, sit down. There's something I want to talk to you about."

Crynn hasn't moved from the door. He's no former trainee from Two or anything like that, but he's big enough to fill the doorway and block it. He eases up a little when she looks back at him but seems to settle more firmly into place. There's a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach, a sense that something's not right. There's nowhere to go except a window. She's not sure there's a back-door.

Why is running an option she's considering? How bad could this be, really?

Pandora sits down across from her, leaving the coffee table between them. Distance could be a good thing.

"You told me about your sister, once," she starts. "I know it was a while ago, and I'm not the type to pry."

"You're right. You're not."

She _isn't_ , so why does it sound like she's about to? Even thinking about her sister gets a lump stuck in her throat, one that doesn't go away for hours.

"Hear me out," she pleads. "I know you said you looked into it, but you really never found anything? Nothing at all?"

"No. Why are you asking?"

"No one ever figured anything out? Not your parents, or your Aunt—"

"My parents won't even say her name," she says. "And I know why. It's easier that way. It was like she got reaped. She left one day and then just never came back. She was just... gone."

"You really don't know," Pandora says quietly, something that should be phrased like a question but isn't.

"Know what?"

Pandora is looking more troubled by the second. She gets up, abruptly, and sits down with a thud on the table right in front of Kestrel's spot. The whole thing wobbles precariously and creaks under her weight. She gives it a second, but nothing gives away. When she looks around Crynn is gone, too, and she sees the edge of his shadow disappear down the hall before nothing's left of him at all.

"I'm going to ask you something," Pandora says. "And you will have every right in the world to hate me, but I need to know."

"Know _what_?" she repeats. Crynn comes back. That was fast. He hands Pandora something, a folded sheet of paper. Kestrel can't make out what's on the other side.

"Did you have anything to do with this?" Pandora asks.

"With what?" she questions. " _This_? Do you mean like..."

Pandora swallows. Crynn is back to looking like half a bodyguard except now he's nervous. He would never flee, not with Pandora sitting here, but it looks like he wants to. It's the same feeling she felt when she walked in here magnified and put directly onto someone else's face.

"Everyone who died," she says. "You think— you think I had something to do with that? Why do you think that?"

"I'm not sure I do, anymore."

"But the idea came from _somewhere_ , if it was random you'd have every person under the sun here right now asking them the same question. But it's just me. You thought it was me."

"I'm sorry."

"Why did you think that?"

"I know what happened to your sister," Pandora interrupts. "I know."

"What do you know?"

"Someone took her from Twelve. At least one person. And they took her to Two. I don't know why it was her, I don't know why it _wasn't_ you."

Something terrible tears open that bad feeling in the pit of her stomach and allows all of the contents to spill out. Her stomach feels like it fills with a thousand bad things all at once until there's no room left inside her. Every part is just overwhelmed with that sick feeling, and suddenly she can feel nothing else. She knows, but she'll hardly allow herself to think it. She won't because it can't be true.

"She survived the bombings after the 160th," Pandora continues. "She got out, I guess. I don't know what happened to her after that. All I know is that she came back this year. She was one of the ten Sentinels that caused all of this in the first place."

"That's not possible."

"It is."

"It's not," she says, convinced. "That's not possible because, because I would _know_. If she survived she would have come back to Twelve."

"But she didn't."

"Because you're _wrong_ ," she insists. "You have no fucking proof of that, you don't—"

Pandora doesn't silence her tirade but when the paper is unfolded and presented to her she finds herself falling silent anyway. It's creased in the middle on every side, right through the grainy picture dead in the center. It's different, a little bit. She stares for longer than she should have to before it sinks in. That's her sister. A haggard, thinner version of her sister, an ugly bruise spread across one cheek. To the right of the photo is a list of basic information - name, birth-date, place of origin, followed by a few numbers and words that don't mean anything to her.

But that's her sister.

"She was one of them," Pandora says. "And she's—"

"She's dead," Kestrel whispers.

"I'm sorry."

She shakes her head. She's not sure what it's supposed to be directed at; perhaps the realization that all of this is true is finally hitting her. It's cementing piece by piece. Not only is her sister dead but she did all of this, participated in it. She was alive all this time and never came back home. Home was replaced by Carnelia Trevall and a rabid gang of murderers who all died targeting kids they never should have touched in the first place.

She misses something Pandora says, something about last names and connections.

She's crying before she knows it.

"I'm sorry," Kestrel says. "I'm sorry, I didn't know, I didn't do this—"

"I know," Pandora says. "I know, I'm sorry too. Don't apologize. You haven't done anything wrong."

Maybe she has, though. Maybe this is still all her fault. If she was better Khia may have come home, or if she had walked home with her from school that day instead of gallivanting off with her friends maybe they wouldn't have taken her. The last thing she had with her was the blood just outside of Twelve's fence, hers or maybe it never was, and that was gone long ago.

And now she's gone for real.

She tries to tell herself to stop crying, but it's long past that. In seconds she goes from quiet, horrified tears to outright sobbing. Pandora leans in to hug her, arms tight, a hand rubbing soothingly over her back. None of it helps.

"I'm so sorry," Pandora says. So is she, really, but none of it matters. "Someone did this. Someone got nineteen kids killed. Regardless of the role your sister played she died for it, too. Someone did this to all of them."

She nods into Pandora's shoulder, though she can't see. There's someone out there, someone that's not her, and they did this.

All of this because of one person, at the end of the day.

And if she ever finds out who it was, who it _is_...

There's going to be hell to pay.

* * *

We're in the single digits now, and for some (probably good) reason that seems like a lot more chapters than it actually is. The end is nigh.

Until next time.


	55. Drawing Dead

LII: The Capitol - En Route to Panem Central Courthouse.

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17  
Applicant #13**

* * *

"Alright, everyone, in the car," Pandora urges.

If Emmi could have one superpower it would be the kind that enabled her to die on the spot and then pop back up somewhere six thousand miles away. That would be the more pleasing option than getting in the car and willingly traveling to the courthouse.

Everyone else is already piling in, though, so she'd look pretty stupid if she did that.

She climbs into the backseat with a sigh, jabbing Tarquin in the leg until he shuffles over all the way. He looks weird. She's not sure if it's the whole hair deal or if he's just like that. Probably both. Besides it's not bad weird, really, just nervous and jittery in a way that no one else is just yet. They've still got a drive to the courthouse - not a very long one, but it's not dooms day time for at least a few more minutes.

They don't have a solution, though. They haven't figured out who it is. Apparently they've got _Kestrel_ of all people staying behind to keep at the list even though she was their main suspect yesterday. Emmi's just doing what she's been trying to this whole time, and that's trust Pandora.

A squad car showed up at the Estate just before they were scheduled to leave. Someone was out there waiting before they had even stepped foot outside, fancy outfits and all. It's that same squad car that pulls out behind them as they turn out into the road. To keep them from running, or to make sure they get there in one piece. There are still people with cameras lurking outside the gates, after all.

In fact, there are cameras, at least one, virtually the entire way there. One on the first street corner. The shutter goes off. A whole gaggle of them just down the street from the courthouse as if they got the wrong address. The flock of them lingering on the front steps is stupidly overwhelming. Her second superpower would be to vaporize whoever she wanted with just a single glance.

Evander is out there waiting for them, but it's just him.

For some reason she finds herself glancing around just before she steps out of the car, but there's not a familiar face in the crowd. She isn't sure why she expected there to be.

Her feet touch the ground. The mob descends. As the first one out of the car Evander swoops in and grabs her arm, wheeling her up the first few steps and towards the doors. The camera's, almost all of them at least, go back to the car. There's more going on there.

A few go off right in her face, though, and she shoves through the last few of them half-blind from the shutters.

They were given a few instructions, all of them boiling down to _do as your told_. Someone pulls open the door to the courthouse - she doesn't see who, but she steps inside, and then stays put. That was the first thing she was told.

It's mostly just a game of listening to Crynn, who's graduated from law school but never actually represented anyone until this day.

God, they're fucked. It's not his fault, they just are.

She got it easy being the first one out - it takes several long minutes to collect everyone else just inside the doors and each one of them comes inside so fast they nearly knock her over. The building itself just feels... cold. It feels wrong.a

And she just has to listen, too. It's the worst. There aren't very many people lingering about in the hall but every single one of them stares owlishly as they're lead past, herded down the hall and into the courtroom.

It's surprisingly empty inside. There weren't cameras allowed inside, that she knew, but it's still bare. There's a clerk standing at the front of the room and two other people sitting in the very front row on the left side.

"Aren't those the fuckers from the hospital?" she wonders.

"The nosy ones asking questions?" Icarus asks. "Sure is."

Of course the President sent prosecutors from the beginning, how did she not know? It's a good thing she spent most of her time avoiding them, at least when she could. She can't even remember their names. Just their intrusive, pushy little faces every time they so much as got near her and anyone else they saw fit to bug.

"Eriska told them to leave me alone," Ria says quietly. Yeah, for good fucking reason, apparently.

There are a few people on what has to be their side though too, and Eriska is one of them. She's spent enough time looking at the others over the past few days as well - that's Jordan from Ten and Waylon from Three. Wendell from Eleven is sitting in the row behind them. There's a woman sitting next to him - she's almost positive that's one of them too, perhaps the Six, but she can't remember her name. It's been a long few days.

The Eight's not here, though. Emmi's seen her a few times around the District, enough to recognize her, but she's nowhere in the room.

No one else is.

"If your mother comes in here, please hide me," Soran mutters. Evander looks around the room, but Emmi's already convinced she's nowhere close. She's not about to make an appearance here, no matter where she stands with the government and what she does for them.

She sits down at the very end of the first bench when the entire group merges. Jordan reaches out to hug Pandora. There's a name off the list, she's convinced. All of them are probably worth taking off.

Tarquin squeezes in next to her and sits down. He had been looking around as actively as she had been but is now studying the ground between his shoes with a fierce intensity, scuffing one back and forth over the tile. Not a good thing when he's borrowing very nice shoes.

"What's up?" she asks.

He shrugs, gnawing at his lip. "Nothing."

She continues to stare at him, gathering patience to either wait him out on what he's thinking, or to burn a hole in the side of his head. Whatever happens first. He glances up at her a few times, each one quicker than the last. When he finally takes a deep breath he's staring at the ground again but she can practically see the gears turning in his brain, queuing up what to say.

"I was just hoping someone would be here," he says. "One of my friends, or something. I don't know."

She hums. "I don't think they just let anyone in here, you know. They probably couldn't, if they tried."

"Oh."

To be honest, she's not sure that's how it works at all. He just looks so sad, is the thing. It can't just be about this, but she's not sure she has it in her to unpack whatever the fuck else is going on inside his brain right now. They clearly don't have the time, either. Crynn files the rest of them in onto the bench the second the clerk moves away from the front podium. There's only a few more people that have trickled in after them, but no one she recognizes, and clearly Tarquin doesn't find a single familiar face either.

"All rise. The Honorable Judge Escher Sykora presiding in the matter of the State vs. the five surviving applicants of the New Haven Program."

What a boring ass way to refer to them, she thinks, and Soran makes a face too. Good to know she's not the only one thinking that.

The guy that walks in isn't totally evil looking right off the bat, which is good. He's just old, and there's nothing offensive about that. Perhaps his hairline could use some help, but Emmi is going to be good and stay silent unless she's spoken too.

They're told to sit, so she does. The clerk retreats, but not very far.

"Mr. Vukovic, Miss Terigan," the Judge starts. "You're aware of and are confident in the charges you've presented to the state?"

"We are, Your Honor."

"Mr. Sylvaine. Your clients are aware of the numerous charges being presented against them?"

The only other person at the front of the room has to be the translator, and she looks downright bewildered as to how any of this is happening. Emmi feels the same way if she's being honest.

"They are," she says. She really needs to get on the whole sign language train herself, so she can know what's going on.

"And from what I understand there's been an agreement to forego a trial due to the plea. Is that correct?"

"It is."

He looks directly at her. She's blaming the hair. Curse Tarquin and Ria for blending in now like normal, sensible human beings. She really ought to get one of them to do hers too. It's probably because she's sitting at the end of the aisle and has the easiest access out, but whatever. His eyes are very beady, and she doesn't like it one bit. Why couldn't he start with someone else?

"Miss Langlois, if you would please stand."

She does. Crynn sort of looks like he wants to hug her. That, or apologize.

"Miss Langlois, how do you plead?"

She swallows down the full cup of bitter in her throat. "Guilty, Your Honor." Guilty for something she didn't even fucking start. It's bullshit, all of it.

"And do you know that by pleading guilty you waive your rights to a jury trial of any kind? You willingly give up that right."

She shouldn't. "Yes, Your Honor."

"Did anyone force you into accepting this outcome?"

"No."

"And are you pleading guilty because the multiple charges laid out against you are in fact true?"

"Yes." Unfortunately for her.

He looks... well, not exactly satisfied, so that's good. "You may be seated, Miss Langlois."

Some of the tension leaks away from her shoulders when she does, but it moves onto everyone else. She leans back in the bench and allows them all out, one by one over several minutes, as the exact same questions are asked to them and the same answers are repeated back. Icarus looks about as happy about it as she does, and Soran spends the whole time looking like he wants to either take a nap or kill half the people in the room. Tarquin looks like someone just stuck him with a pin and deflated him before the party even began.

Ria, for once, doesn't shy away. Her voice will never be a loud, confident thing but her back and shoulders are straight the whole time. Emmi would get up and clap for her if she could.

And just like that, five guilty pleas and no one even had to do anything.

"There has been no settlement reached in regards to the matter of the defendants. We will adjourn for an hour to allow Mr. Sylvaine, Miss Terigan and Mr. Vukovic to discuss possible settlements. If no agreement is made in that hour we'll discuss sentencing at a later date."

So, that's it? It's over? They're done for?

Crynn could get them out of this, maybe. Or he could buy them a few more days in order to figure something out, to find who _really_ did this. Maybe Kestrel already has and is just waiting for them to get back.

Either way she has to believe that this doesn't end in the worst possible way, even if it is.

She just has to think that way, because it can't be over.

She won't let it be.

* * *

 **Soran Faerber, 19  
Applicant #8**

* * *

"Do you think they'll let us be next door neighbors in jail?" Icarus asks.

He can't help it - he snorts. "Probably fucking not. They're gonna send me and Emmi to proper adult prison while you three are sent to baby jail."

"Emmi's still got like, a week left."

"And I'm pretty sure a week won't matter when it's adult prison versus baby prison. And you've still got a few months."

Icarus is sulking like that's a bad thing, when in reality any sort of juvenile detention center that they could get sent to wouldn't be nearly as bad as outright prison. Icarus, for one, will probably die in prison.

He hadn't even realized Emmi's birthday was a thing, either, or that it was steadily coming up to the end of July. It feels like it's been years, or maybe the brief stint with death maybe just shaved some of his time off. Metaphorically speaking, of course. He's just really bad at keeping track of things now, way worse than he was before.

His brain is still rattled to a point. He knew Icarus was right about not feeling fine but he hadn't wanted to confront it then. It's a little worse here than it has been, but he's not surprised.

Besides, he's working on it. That's all he can really do.

Emmi appears and sits down on the bench next to Icarus, shoving the both of them down until she has enough room. Icarus wraps an arm around his side before he can tip off the bench and onto the floor. He has no idea how long it's been, but it has to have been nearly an hour by now. He doesn't think anything's getting resolved today, which means they may just have some more time to figure something out.

"Think they're getting anywhere?" he asks.

Icarus shrugs. Emmi sighs, lengthy and more annoyed than anything he's heard today, and that's a pretty high benchmark to pass.

So no. Okay then.

He has no idea where Pandora and Evander went. He's pretty sure the Mervaine's showed up at some point. The fact that they're being left unsupervised now of all times is pretty impressive. Maybe someone finally trusts them enough to leave them alone. It's that or they're just spread too thin. Besides, there are cameras everywhere, an entire colony of people outside. Where would they even go?

Ria walks by them twice and then finally stops on the third time, lingering just in front of the bench. She won't stop fiddling with her hands, still looking this way and that even though she's stopped traversing about.

"How's the wrist?" he asks. She looks down at it, like she's unsure.

"Fine, I guess. It doesn't hurt as much."

He's surprised it doesn't hurt more, what with the size of the guy and how small she is in comparison. He could have broken her arm clean off right from the shoulder if he really wanted to. If only he had been slightly more lucid in that moment. He could've done _something_.

Emmi seems to be taking a nap. Icarus is humming something under his breath and doing a bang-up job of ignoring everything else going on around them. She, however, keeps fidgeting, the anxious look in her eyes growing by the second.

He nudges her with his shoe. "What's up?"

"You haven't seen Tarquin, have you?"

"No? I thought he was with you?"

"He was, but he went to the bathroom," she says, nodding to the door at the end of the hall. "I haven't seen him come out... maybe I missed him, but I don't know. I have a bad feeling."

Well now _he_ has a bad feeling too, thanks to her saying that. He's seen a few people come and go from the bathroom in the past hour, but not Tarquin. He's pretty sure he saw him go in, now that Ria says it, but where did he go after that? If he did come out, why did he split from the rest of him? It's _Tarquin_ \- he can't see him going off to just sit by himself somewhere until the hour's up when the rest of them are right here.

He gets up and makes a beeline for the bathroom with Ria skittering after him. There's only one person in there when he opens the door, an older man washing his hands at the sink. He gives Soran one wide-eyed, slightly terrified look and edges around him and out of the bathroom before he can so much as blink.

Okay then.

"You sure you didn't see him come out?" he asks. He walks his way down and nudges open all the stall doors, but there's no one else here.

"I really don't think so."

That might not be good enough, because he's definitely not here. Soran pushes a hand against the final door but it doesn't give. There's no feet under the door though, no sign of movement and not a single sound.

There is, however, more light in there than the rest of them.

That's not good.

He drops to the floor and wedges himself underneath the door, reaching up to unlock it without even looking. He doesn't have time to look. The window on the back wall is cracked open a few inches; none of the others were the whole way down here. It would open just wide enough at full capacity to allow someone out of it - if he could fit out, Tarquin definitely could.

"Fuck's sake," he mutters. "Please tell me you didn't."

"Didn't what?" Ria asks, voice getting closer. He props himself up on the bar along the back wall and opens the window again. It swings out without making a single noise.

There's not much out there. A few feet of grass before a row of hedges that stretch all the way down the side of the building. He keeps his head out there for way too long trying to process what it is he's seeing, which is to say nothing. Tarquin's nowhere in sight. The dirt at the window's edge is kicked up and smudged across the lip of the window where his fingers are.

"Oh no," Ria says. She's in the stall behind him now, staring with object horror. If only it was because he was halfway stuck out the window and not because it's looking more and more likely by the second that Tarquin took off on all of them.

He hears Emmi's voice a second before the both of them appear behind Ria, her and Icarus both. She looks annoyed, Icarus even more-so. He steps forward to grab the back of Soran's jacket like he's about to drag him back down but he holds on to the window even tighter. If he wanted to go outside for a few minutes, he would've asked. There's an obvious difference between that and _this_.

And everyone's realizing it, too. Icarus stops tugging at him. Emmi says something absolutely foul under her breath.

"What are we going to do?" Ria asks.

"What _are_ you doing, exactly?" Ferrox asks from the doorway. Soran tries to slide back in too quickly and sends his head into the window's edge instead, swearing. Icarus' hand tightens to keep him plummeting off his perch on the bar.

There's a very awkward, long moment where all four of them stare at him. He stares back at them, unblinking. He doesn't even really look surprised.

He deserves a lot of credit for that.

"Nothing?" Icarus tries, still holding onto him.

"Can we have your car?" he asks in the same beat. Icarus turns back to give him a positively filthy look.

One of them's already taken off, and it's looking like they're gonna have to go too.

"You better hope they were postponing sentencing," Ferrox says, tossing a pair of keys across the length of the bathroom. Emmi catches them with a startled jerk. "If not, you're gonna be in some deep shit."

Too late. They already are. And Tarquin's probably drowning in it by now.

"It's out the back door, to the left, in Lot C," he tells them. "I'll go tell everyone else. You might want to be gone before I do. I can't stop them from stopping _you_."

There's no stopping any of them apparently. Tarquin's gone, for crying out-loud. No one stopped him. No one even thought to because this hadn't even been a possibility. He hadn't thought for one second that one of them was going to take off and disappear, let alone Tarquin. That's something that he would pull, or maybe Icarus. What's happening now doesn't make any sense.

It doesn't have to, though. It's happened.

And they really, seriously need to go.

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16**  
 **Applicant #17**

* * *

There's no guidebook for this.

If there was, finding him would be a whole hell of a lot simpler.

Even sneaking out the back is harder than you reckon it would be. All the way out they can hear people but not see them, and it becomes a game of wandering about just to see what car will eventually go off. They do find it eventually, some ten minutes later, but even that feels too long.

She doesn't know how long it took for them to realize. That really depends on how soon he took off after he got in the bathroom - did he do it right away, or did it take him a few minutes to figure it out?

Clearly he knew what he was doing, but no one can be all the way there to take off like that.

And she gave him credit yesterday, too. She had thought he was doing better.

So what was the shift? When did that change?

"Is anyone gonna tell me where to go?" Soran asks, pulling free from the lot and into the road. It's calmer this way, and the window's are so dark that no one on the sidewalk has realized.

"He can't be far," Emmi insists. "Just circle for a few blocks."

"He could've gotten plenty far if that's what he wanted to do," Soran points out. "If he wants to be gone, he'll be gone. He's the one that still lives here, remember?"

Tarquin knows this place, every nook and cranny, every place able to be hidden in or able to be run through. He knows where to go and he knows himself, too. Any place he might be inclined to go is locked away in his own brain, and they're not privy to it.

The phone in the front console starts buzzing as they turn onto the next road. Ferrox had thrown it at her, too, just before they had stepped inside. All four of them stare at it until Icarus flips it over, the display lighting up with an unknown number.

"That's probably Pandora," Emmi surmises.

No one answers it.

The second it stops the first time though the buzzing picks back up. Emmi reaches forward to snatch up the phone, answering it before someone can tell her not to.

"Hello," she says, voice a firm few notches above artificial cheerfulness. She tugs the phone away from her ear a second later - whatever is coming through the other end of the line is loud, only decibels away from a full-blown shout.

If that is Pandora, she doesn't sound very pleased.

"Yes, I'm aware that we weren't supposed to leave, but—"

She tugs the phone away again and presses the speaker button. The almost-shouting fills the car, making her wince.

"You guys can't just _leave_ ," Pandora snaps. "That's not how this works. I don't care if he took off, the solution is not to go after him without telling anyone."

"Technically we did," Soran mutters, although she doesn't hear that bit. Thankfully.

"Please just come back," Pandora begs.

"No," Emmi says flatly. "We need to find him."

"I'm getting in the car right now!" she insists. "But I need to know where you guys are. It's not safe for you out there."

"Then how is it safe for us to leave him?"

"We're not. I just—"

It's too much for Ria to focus on. If Pandora's leaving, that must mean they postponed it. Hopefully no one else beyond that found out about them leaving, then. Even if by some miracle they get Pandora to listen and head the other way they still have no idea how to find him though, and that's what she's stuck on. They could look for hours, for days, and never find him. Not if he doesn't want to be found.

"Just call us every ten minutes if you're that worried!" Soran yells back. "What do you think the phone's for?"

Ria isn't sure Ferrox's phone was intended for that use, but it's looking like it will be.

"Where are you guys, though?"

"Don't tell her," Soran says.

"I can hear you, you know!"

Ria's not one to slip by authority but even she knows telling Pandora will only regress their progress. They'll cover more ground the more cars they have. It's not even an equation. It's just that simple.

The hard part is finding him. And she may not know where he's go, but someone else...

"His friends," she says under her breath, but Emmi hears it and one of her eyebrows cocks up. She nods, as if understanding something that Ria hasn't even begun to process.

"Do you think... do you think you could get a hold of one of his friends?" Emmi asks. "They might know where he'd go."

"Probably?" Pandora guesses. "I'll call you back. Don't do anything stupid."

Someone's sarcasm is beginning to find a new home in her. The quip of _do we ever?_ nearly slips out, but Emmi hangs up the phone before it can.

They're relying on people that even been contacted yet, people they don't even know. And who's to say his friends will even know? He's not the same person; maybe this version of him will go somewhere that no one would expect him to. You couldn't have paid her to believe that he would have spent all that time in the mines, and he did.

All she had to do was realize sooner. He might not have gone, or at least she could have stopped him from getting any further.

He's well and truly gone. They've circled half a dozen times already. He's not here.

Ria never paid attention to the time at the front of the car, the neon numbers fuzzy. There's no track of time, but it feels like too long. In this amount of time he could have run god only knows how far across the city. He could've jumped on a bus, or onto one of the rail lines. People might not recognize him like this; there's no way the photos from this morning have been published already.

A half hour trickles into an hour, and then fifteen minutes past. They've gone halfway across the city and back, down almost every side street with any sort of population at all.

The phone rings. Emmi nearly knocks it to her feet in her haste to answer it.

"Okay, okay, sorry it took me so long," Pandora starts. They're going to stop for gas at this rate. "I talked to one of them, he's at the Resonance Theater downtown—"

"Who? Tarquin?"

"No, his friend. He checked the entire building - Tarquin's not there. That was his first guess. He's going to their school grounds and a nearby cafe to check there, and he sent two of their other friends on the train to the east side. Said there's a restaurant there him and his parents went to a lot. He said Summerview Park too but there's no direct line there."

"Okay, we'll go there. Anything else?"

"His house isn't far from Summerview, it's right near the lake. It's probably still blocked off by police but you might wanna go by anyway."

"Got it. Address?"

"Sending it right now."

Okay, they can do this. Ria feels better now. At least they won't just be driving in circles now hoping to stumble across him in the crowds of people. Things here have tamed down in the past nine years; he could blend in now better than any of them would like.

"Okay, there you go," Pandora says. The phone pings right on cue. "Just please, for me, if you see him and you're in a very public area, stay in the car. He can probably blend on his own but all five of you won't stand a chance. Call me, and I'll come."

She would listen, normally. Ria always does. She behaves and listens because that's just how she was taught to do things, quiet and unassuming. Less attention that way.

If she sees him, she's not staying in the car.

In her time here she doesn't think she ever visited Summerview Park. She lived on the other side of the city in one of those fancy, high-rise apartments. Up there it was like the ground didn't even exist, let alone a park. The people below looked like ants and everything else had felt even smaller. When you always felt as small as she did it wasn't a bad feeling to have.

It's a warm day. The sun is out in full blast, only a faint wisp of cloud here and there to obscure it. There are people out in droves even before they hit the park itself, teeming over the sidewalk and walking out to cross the road without a care in the world.

She gets the feeling that Soran would be viciously honking by now if he didn't want to draw attention to himself.

Ria presses her face to the glass at the first sign of the park, of rolling green grass and the glimmering surface of the lake at the far edge. The people here are thicker than she thought possible - kids running around and screaming as they chase each other, adults lounging about on blankets and basking in the sun, young couples off picnicking. It's not peaceful in the sense that she knows it to be, but something about it is. They're here for a reason.

And somehow, even though she doesn't say it, she knows he's not there.

There's no standout, no single person wandering alone. Even if there was she doesn't think it would be him.

She has to take what she knows about him at face value. He wanted everything before. He _loved_ everything. As many people as he could get and as much conversation as it took to make him happy. He wanted it all.

He's not like that anymore.

"Just go to his house," she insists. Someone ought to argue, but no one does.

Before people didn't listen to her, either. Things have changed.

The house is easier to find even than she expected. The street name is unfamiliar but all they have do to is head a little ways down the lake's edge to find it, tucked away at the end of a cul-de-sac. It's still encircled by garishly yellow caution tape, although some of it has started to peel away and flutter free, clinging on with only one end.

And she's not staying in the car.

Besides, the circle is quiet. After what happened here not long ago his neighbors are probably holed up; she can't imagine they chance looking out the window very often now, if they still live here at all. The one at the corner has a bright red 'for sale' sign tapped into the front lawn.

It's a nice house. Not too big. She can see slivers of the lake in the gaps between each property, the sun reflecting off it.

Now this is peaceful, if she doesn't think about what happened.

The front steps look well-trodden but she still picks her way up them with careful precision. There's no one around, but she still feels like she can't make much noise. Beside her Icarus peers into the window to the left of the door, but clearly discovers nothing.

The door gives way under her hand when she pushes at the handle. Is that good?

"Do they not lock down crime scenes in this century?" Icarus asks.

"Unless he's here."

Emmi nudges at one of the ceramic pots on the porch, filled with dried and dead flowers. It looks moved, slightly, the cement underneath it brighter than the rest of the weather-worn stuff around them.

You couldn't do it in Three, leave a key outside just in case. But here you could. Here it was supposed to be safe.

She steps inside.

Now _Ria_ feels like the intruder. She kicks up some dust when she scuffles inside, dislodging the mat just inside the door. There's no sign of anything going on. It almost feels like a brand new house - it would, if not for the personal touches. A family photo there, a still-indented spot in the couch's left cushion. There's an unwashed mug in the sink and one shattered on the floor next to the fridge. She almost kicks it away before she thinks better of it.

"For the love of God, no one touch anything," Emmi insists. She already touched the door, though. Then again, by the looks of it Tarquin did too. He got here first.

Someone goes tromping down the hall. Another pair of footsteps disappear up the stairs. She continues navigating her way through the kitchen and then past the dining room, into the sitting area at the back of the house. It's warm from the sun, all the curtains pushed back to the very edge.

And there's a silhouette too, standing at the very edge of the deck outside, dark and sort of hunched over. Not moving.

Bingo.

Instead of raising the alarm she slides open the back door. He hears her - she sees something in him give a little flinch at the sudden noise, but he doesn't move otherwise. He doesn't even turn around to look at her.

She feels sick, but there's a wave of relief that goes crashing over her too. It feels like she expected to find him dead.

Did she?

"Hey," she says, swallowing. She takes a few steps out onto the deck but can't bring it in her to go right to his side. It doesn't feel right to.

She can see the cogs turning in his brain. Wondering how they got here, wondering what he's supposed to do. "Hey," he says back, voice slightly strained.

Someone needs to tell her what to do. She doesn't know.

"What happened?" she asks finally, unable to settle on anything else.

"I don't know," he answers. "That's the thing, I don't... I don't know. I didn't want to be there anymore, and I told myself I could leave and then I just... did."

"But you knew we couldn't."

"Yeah," he says, and then makes a noise that almost sounds like a laugh. It would be, somewhere else. "Yeah, I knew."

"So why did you?"

"It's too much," he answers. "All of it, it's just too much. And you're all handling it but I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to do, most days, and I thought it was going to get better but I didn't sleep again last night. I tried, and I just kept having these fucking nightmares and they wouldn't stop so I _gave up._ And nobody else is, and that's great and all but it makes everything _worse._ I can't figure it out like you guys can."

"I don't think we have it all figured out."

He whirls on her. He looks like he's about to cry, and if he cries than she's probably going to cry too. It always happens. "You do. You may not see that but I _see it_ , okay? You're figuring it out and I'm not."

"That's because everyone does things in different ways," she tells him. "Just because one of us might—"

"It's not a _might_ , you have. You're there and I'm here, and I just don't want to fucking feel anything anymore, or at least be awake to feel any of it, which is probably a good thing because based on today they're probably just going to fucking kill us anyway."

"Please don't say that."

"It's true. I don't. I don't want to feel anything. I don't even know if I want to—"

"What?"

He shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

"It does matter. Tell me."

She can see the little tremble, the telltale sign that someone's about to lose it. She's not sure if she's ever even seen it before, but it just makes sense.

"I'm so fucking scared," he whispers, at long last.

"Of what?"

"That if I let myself feel something other than _this_ that it's going to hurt too bad. I'm afraid that if I let even one emotion out that I'm done for. I'll collapse. And I don't know if I can get back up after that."

She waits. His knees don't give out. He doesn't sink to the floor. She does think he's started crying, finally, but he's looking away from her again. The look on his face might break her heart - she's not sure if that's something _she_ wants to allow herself to feel.

"You're allowed to collapse, you know that?" she asks him. "I'm here, we're all here. There's nothing wrong with that. And if you need help getting back up then I'll still be here. You'll get back up, I know you will."

He shakes his head. It's not defiance or refusal. It looks more like doubt, like he doesn't think he has the strength. There's only one person here that went down into the mines and came back out alive, and it's him. Reminding him of that would hurt, but it's also a testament. He didn't fall for good then, and he won't now.

She knows it, even if he doesn't. She can know it for the both of them.

"Hey," she says again, softer. He turns, arms wrapped around himself. There are the tears she was expecting, streaming unbroken down his face. She feels like a completely different person when she opens up her arms to him - it's not her, has never been her.

Maybe it will be. She's working on it.

He doesn't quite collapse into them but it feels close, like if she was any weaker she'd drop him. He buries his face in her shoulder, sobbing, shaking like his seams are finally tearing open and everything is coming out.

She doesn't let go because she was never weak, because that's what Tarquin said.

It seems more believable now.

She can feel the eyes on them from the door but doesn't let go. She tightens her arms around him and he does the same. They're going to be here for a while, she knows.

But it's okay, because they're alive and they're rebuilding and maybe they're finally starting to listen to each other.

If nothing else comes out of this, they have that.

* * *

 **Tycho Alinari, 37  
Head Chef - Rose Point Estate**

* * *

"They coming back soon?" he asks.

Evander shrugs. He's perched on the kitchen counter like a very large, odd looking gargoyle, halfway through a bowl of soup. In the middle of July, no less, but it's not Tycho's job to question what he does and does not want to eat at weird times. That's not what he gets paid for.

"That's what they told Pandora a half hour ago," Evander says. "So they should be back any minute."

He thought so. That's why he was sticking to his job, making food and pouring drinks and tucking them away in the fridge for later. It didn't sound good, and that's all he knows.

Like he said, it's not his business unless it's happening in the kitchen. That's what Althea always says, anyway.

He's a little too nosy for this particular job, he thinks. Working a regular old job in the back of some average-rated Capitol restaurant would be better. The pay certainly not, but he's fine with what he's got. There's always so much going on here, so much he wants to poke his nose into.

Here's the thing - Kerensa Quinn actually likes him, thank you very much, and she doesn't like very many people. If he starts poking around she will no longer like him.

He's probably already skating on thin ice with her if she's gotten wind of how he's been treating those kids. She'd sooner dump them all down his garbage disposal.

That would be messy. Althea wouldn't like that one bit. She hates messes.

Evander downs the rest of his soup in one gulp over the edge of the bowl, broth and chicken and vegetables and all. Tycho takes the bowl from him before he can do anything else weird with it.

"I can wash a single bowl, you know."

"I can too," he says. "Go wait for them, or something. Make sure you don't lose one again. If they're hungry send one of them my way - I'll help them bring up some food."

Evander still hasn't left, bless his heart. It looks like he's supervising Tycho washing that one, lonely bowl, but that's not it.

"Thank-you," Evander says.

"For what?"

"For treating them right. You know, like..."

"Like normal human beings?" he finishes. "Because that's what they are?"

"They wouldn't even argue that themselves I don't think," Evander says. "Either way, I appreciate it. And I'm sure they do too, even if they won't say it."

He shrugs. "I'd do the same if put in their position. People can act all high and mighty, but most of them would too. If this country were full of saints and pacifists unwilling to murder we wouldn't have had the Games in the first place."

"You're pretty smart, you know that."

"Seventeen year old you told me that too, and then you nearly got me fired because you made me help you sneak out."

"It was for a good cause."

"You having a top secret rendezvous with a girl was not a good cause, Quinn, and you know it."

It was funny, though, and he'll give him that. It was also the last, and most convenient, happy memory that he knows Evander has of that year. That was a month before the Games, less than two until his father got shot in the head. Even Renatus had found it funny, he suspected, but he was too green in the job to say it aloud, not when Kerensa was looking.

And then he had died, so it hadn't really mattered. Shit tended to go south like that.

Part of him just thinks that kids deserve that, those moments of happiness and freedom when nothing else matters in the world. These five aren't getting that. They've murdered and fought and bled and now they're trapped here, of all places. The last one they'd really choose.

All Tycho can do is make them eat, so he'll keep on doing that. It feels good to at least be doing something.

He doesn't have kids of his own, doesn't know if he ever will, but _their_ parents are gone. Pandora and Evander are more literal older siblings than parents, and God knows Kerensa won't do anything about that. They just need someone to look after them, and he can do it. It's an easy choice if no one else will.

There's a little bit of commotion from the hall. Not enough rabble to befit this place as of late, but judging by what happened he didn't expect there to be.

Things are powering down for the evening. Everything fits that.

"Alright, that's probably them," Evander says, hopping off the counter. "Gotta make sure everything's good. You serious, about the food?"

"Of course. Like I said, just send someone down."

Evander claps a hand on his shoulder before he goes. "You're the best."

"Don't worry, I know," he says after him. Althea's better, no doubt about it. Maybe not in the general warmth and kindness department, but that's why he's here. Everyone does what they can and they do it to the best of their abilities. Everyone has their role.

He knows his.

Like he said - someone has to do it.

* * *

I'm not a law student nor will I ever be and made just about all of this up for the pure sake of plot, so like... no need to point out my nonsense or inconsistencies or both.

And yes, happy 300k. Thankfully that's the last time I'll have to say that about any sort of word count.

Until next time.


	56. Kill The Messenger

LIII: The Capitol - Rose Point Estate.

* * *

 **Tarquin Vierra, 16  
Applicant #4**

* * *

"You don't have to stay in here, you know."

"I, for one, am not," Soran informs him. "Someone has to keep at that stupid list, and none of you assholes are going to do it."

Evidently not, no. He doesn't plan on volunteering for that job tonight.

"Tell me to leave, then," Emmi mumbles into the three blankets that she's dragged onto the side of his bed. He'd feel bad if he did that, though. Doesn't she get that? He feels bad enough, like he could be sick or cry all over again. There's something inside him beyond repair, and maybe they all have a part like that, but his never stops hurting. It's hard to forget when it's all you can feel.

"You seriously going?" Icarus asks.

"Sure am."

Okay, so then they're down to four, at least until Soran comes back. He won't last all night. Someone will have to take over, and they probably won't ask it to be him.

That's still three other people crammed up in his room. It's not a small place, but he's still not used to it. They all keep looking at him, too. He wants to ask if they think he's about to crawl out the window again, but he doesn't think Ria would laugh.

He's on a leash now. He's being supervised.

It's not... all bad.

He's not sure what their plan is, though. Soran's gone, but what are the other four going to do? Stay in here until he falls asleep? Stay here _all night_? That's not going to be comfortable for everyone involved. Icarus is already laid out very dramatically across the ottoman at the end of his bed, face-down and dangling all four limbs out in different directions, each one brushing against the floor. He looks like a very disgruntled cat.

Speaking of, he's pretty sure Nyx was in here when they got back. If he was, he's hiding now.

Tarquin doesn't blame him.

"Seriously, if you want me to go, or any of us, just say so," Emmi says. So she's speaking for everyone, now. Icarus waves a thumbs up in his direction but stays put. Ria smiles again.

He doesn't say anything, just nods in stony-faced silence.

His eyes are still sore from earlier, and all the crying has gotten to his head. It's not enough of a headache to be truly annoying, but it's just present enough to remind him of the reason why. It would be best to just sleep and wake up in the morning feeling better, but he's not so sure.

Maybe he really ought to go talk to that therapist tomorrow, after they get back. Pandora said the sentencing was happening early in the morning. How he feels and his willingness to talk about it will probably ride a lot on the outcome.

It can only be as bad as he lets it get.

Sleep really would help.

He knows on a deeper level that Ria's right; he's handling this differently. A few hours of nightmares doesn't mean those pills Dr. Arranmore gave him aren't working - it just means it's going to take some time. Or he'll try something else, later, if this doesn't go anywhere.

It's his brain that's trying to constantly convince him otherwise, the traitorous thing. If only it would stop telling him he wants to be dead.

Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn't. That's probably part of accepting it.

It's not _okay_ , there is no way in hell that that's okay, but he knows the feeling is there. He's aware of it, to say the least, and apparently everyone else is. He thinks everyone else feels the same, sometimes, and thinking that way doesn't mean anything's fundamentally wrong with them.

All that they went through spit them out way different than they were before. He'd be more alarmed if his brain was reacting normally.

You don't have the blood of thirteen people on your hands and come out normal. Sometimes he swears there's still ash in the back of his throat and it burns.

"Hey, you know something?" Emmi asks. She nudges him in the side for good measure. "Remember how you said you were wondering if any of your friends would show at the courthouse?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, they went looking for you today. Pandora got a hold of one of them. They checked out a few spots and we went to the rest."

"Who?"

"Three of them? I don't know who."

And it has to be the three that matter. He knows other people obviously, but none so close as those three, and none that would go looking so quickly with so little information. Pandora told them to and they just... did, without question. He'd do the same thing for them, but after all of this...

He didn't know if they would, anymore. If they even cared.

Icarus looks up. "You're going to make him cry again."

Okay, yes, his eyes are burning. He's familiar with the feeling.

"Good cry?" Emmi asks. He nods.

It's still not the ideal situation. Far from it. If this was a normal summer and he was still a normal person he wouldn't be crying over his friends at all, wouldn't have to worry about how they felt about him. He'd be doing another play, going to sleep at a regular time, waking up and doing it all over again.

It would be easy to wish for that, but he's grateful that he's still alive first and foremost.

Isn't that what it boils down to? Grateful to be alive but wondering if death is easier?

He knows it doesn't make any sense.

"They do care, if you were wondering," Ria says quietly. "They still do. They always will. And maybe you'll get to see them soon."

God, he hopes so. He can't even begin to imagine how it would go but he doesn't care. They might fill up a little bit of the stupid, gaping hole he has somewhere in him. He's not sure where it came from or what made it. It's just there and he can't get rid of that.

Maybe he'll learn to live with it

"If tomorrow goes well, that's what we're doing," Emmi announces. "We're taking a car and we're tracking them down."

"Sounds good," he says, voice thick. So he'll cry tomorrow too. Got it. That's how many days since they got out of the desert alive now? More than he can count, probably. There's so much optimistic thinking in this room; it's so very unlike them all. It's like someone knows tomorrow will be good, that the tears will be worth it. Just think of the things he could do if it _does_ go well. He could get out of here. See his friends. Try for something resembling normalcy again.

It all seems sweet. Almost too sweet, but don't they deserve that?

What's that expression, though? Waiting for the other shoe to drop?

That's what it feels like. They'll have one thing one second, but something else will follow. Something else will come down.

He's just going to stick with hoping it's good.

* * *

 **Soran Faerber, 19  
Applicant #8**

* * *

It's the most work they've gotten done in a while.

Apparently sleep equals out to productivity - who would've thought?

Kestrel seems to have gotten through a lot this morning. Multiple names that he hadn't even looked at are crossed out, now, and Pandora sees good reason to believe that she's right. Confronting the idea that she might be isn't worth his time right now. They've got what, less than twelve hours until they have to go back out for sentencing?

He doesn't have the time to worry about it.

He considers going to trade off with someone else, but he can go a few more hours. Crynn dropped off and went to actually sleep in a bed, but Pandora is still up. For some reason that only heightens his obligation to stay up as well.

Who knows, maybe they could figure this out tonight. Maybe tomorrow morning things will be better.

He allows himself one break, first; meanders off to the bathroom and then all the way downstairs for a drink where he ends up leaving with a handful of cookies too. He'll give them this, they know how to eat here. Just about any standard of food would impress someone like him, he's aware. Eating literal trash for years will do that to you.

Still - they're some good cookies.

There's another voice present when he slips back into the library. Not Crynn, clearly. It doesn't sound like Evander, either, which basically leaves him empty in the names department. He didn't think anyone else would even be awake at this time, but apparently he was wrong. A passing by worker, maybe, or the doctor's getting particularly nosy.

He steps through the archway, catches sight of the computer he left, and then catches sight of _everything else_.

Namely the person, the person holding a gun leveled somewhere in the middle of Pandora's face, and then her eyes, which widen to near comical levels at the sight of him.

The gun stays right where it is, but the person turns to look at him. He knows that face, would recognize the voice if he opened his mouth to speak. He was looking at him in the courtroom this morning across the aisle this morning, watching him fight for a sentence that Soran probably won't like.

If only he bothered remembering his name.

"Oh," he says simply, mouth half full of cookie.

The gun swings towards him.

He stops thinking about eating.

He dives back, out of the way, in-between two stacks, and hits the floor with a thud. And he drops all the cookies too, for fuck's sake. The glass shatters long after he hits the ground, and he's back up before he sees where it even landed. A bullet slams into the shelf a foot behind him, and then another pings off the hardwood floor right when he throws himself around the corner at the end of the row.

The shots stop coming. Pandora is still shrieking something, but if it's any actual words he'd be mighty impressed. It certainly doesn't sound that way.

He flattens himself to the edge of the shelving unit, back pressed against it. This isn't good. This is very, very bad, in fact. Someone had to have heard that, right? Someone's in here shooting at him, or both of them. Someone had to have heard.

Or not. It's a big ass house.

If no one heard, he's on his own.

He needs a weapon. Apparently he should've been more focused on grabbing a knife out of the fucking kitchen instead of the cookies. If they get out of this that's next on his to-do list, and he's never, ever giving it back. That knife will belong to him now.

There are footsteps creaking steadily closer. If he goes back for the shattered glass he's going to end up with a bullet in him.

There's nothing useful out here. A book isn't going to kill someone with a gun. Everything he could probably use is in the actual office, and the aforementioned someone with the gun is standing in-between him and that. The closer he gets the less time Soran has to think. He drops almost to his knees and swings back around the next corner, quickly scuttling back to the main walkway, nearly silent. He won't be able to hear Soran moving around like that over his own footsteps.

He chances a peek. Pandora's gone. Clearly she's getting dragged along for the ride, then.

It's one of the fucking prosecutors, the guy. Since when are prosecutors looking to actively murder people with their bare hands?

It doesn't really matter.

He sees the shadows move from the opposite end of the stack, both of them, and throws himself out into the walkway and towards the office. He knows how much noise it makes; he knows it damn well. There's the sound of footsteps coming after him, loud and insistent, a muted struggle a second later. He doesn't have time to think about it.

He lunges for the first thing he sees, the first solution that prevents itself. The fireplace is on the opposite wall, the little tool rack teetering unevenly on the brickwork laid out around it. He doesn't have a name for anything he's looking at, but they're all long, look like solid metal, and most importantly of all - he can fucking hit someone with them.

Almost, anyway.

He doesn't quite get there.

The bastard is damn fast, turns out. He must have let go of Pandora and left her behind if she kept up fighting him. A hand locks around his elbow; nails dig into the skin there so hard he expects to see blood, but doesn't get the chance.

For a moment he's transported back to that ramshackle building back in the valley, alone, getting tossed around like a bouncy ball by that fucking Sentinel who might as well have eaten him for dinner. And he knows in that moment what he's dealing with. It's the same thing all over again, except Icarus isn't here to save his miserable life this time and the hand stops all the momentum he had gained from running.

This time, he turns around first. He doesn't let the momentum pull him back before he loses the chance.

He turns around - he's going to do something, god dammit, and then the gun cracks into his head.

Okay, _nevermind._

He blinks once. Twice. Suddenly he's on the floor? That's interesting. He doesn't remember getting there at all.

His ears are ringing like someone's planted a bell inside them and everything is _throbbing_ , his skull pulsating over and over. He can hear something, but he's not sure what. Whatever it is must be very far away.

He tries to roll over and something slams down in the middle of his back - it feels like a foot. That's not good. He can only crane his neck so far before the angle hurts too much; the fireplace isn't all that far away, and neither are the tools. They're out of reach from his hands, though, even if he stretched his arms out, and he won't be able to. The foot is pressing down too hard.

Is Pandora making the noise? It sounds like babbling, if he had to hazard a guess. Unless the prosecutor with the gun has suddenly turned into someone who babbles, it has to be her.

He raises up his head a fair few inches, as far as he can get it, and everything spins. His vision's all blurry. The babbling stops all at once at the same time something presses to the back of his skull, the cold barrel of the gun. It forces his head back down, directly into something sticky. Blood? It smells like blood, and it has to be his if he's face-planting into it.

Nothing makes sense the way he wishes it would. He's bleeding from somewhere, wherever the gun made contact. It feels like his forehead, but he can't be sure. If it hit him that hard and he doesn't remember getting here he must have blacked out for a second. And if he _did_ get hit that hard then the bastard knows what he's doing, of course Soran was right when he didn't want to be. The last thing he wanted right now was to be _right_.

"You're gonna listen to me," he says. Okay then? It's not like he can argue that one, and he doesn't think Pandora is about to.

"Wait, hold on," Pandora interrupts. He really wishes she would stop that. "Andere, hold—"

Oh, Andere. Right. Doesn't make him any less of an asshole in this particular moment, but what can you do.

He's pretty sure Andere wasn't even on the fucking list, but it seems more and more likely by the moment that he had something to do with this. Soran can't see him having a gun to his head for no good reason right now.

They're arguing above him, squabbling like children. If it keeps him alive, he's not going to complain.

It's going too fast for him to keep up with it. He tries to take stock. Okay, he's probably concussed into another dimension. It definitely feels like he is. There's no weapons within reach except the gun that's being held to the back of his head, and that means that he can't move unless he wants a bullet in the brain, which he doesn't. He's not sure that Pandora has the power to do anything right now, and it doesn't feel like anyone else is coming to save them. They would have been here by now.

Which means he... still has to do something? Awesome.

He turns his head to the side; the gun slips, and then readjusts, pressing even harder to the exact same spot. Pandora comes into view, still blurry and too high up, but he can see her. Whatever she was about to say trickles off when she looks at him. She looks petrified to say the least, and the look increases tenfold in that moment.

Okay, so he's bleeding more than he thought. When is he not?

He wiggles, throws all four limbs out, and it does nothing. Andere stomps down on his back again like he's set on breaking his spine. The gun digs in a bit more. The cold is disappearing as it warms to his skin but it's still all he can feel, all he can think about.

If his finger even moves, Soran's dead. Really, actually, no hope of resuscitating dead.

He leaves his arm thrown out, though, and Andere does nothing to bring it back. He's less than two inches from ripping one of the tools off of its hook, the one that ends in a spike at the bottom. Pandora's eyes flicker, up to his arm and then back to his face. Not slow enough to betray it. He can get it, but this is on her. He's not going to be able move a muscle with Andere's eyes on him like this. She's not a threat, Soran knows that. She never, ever will be.

But what Andere doesn't know won't kill him, or hopefully it will.

She just has to look like one.

"Andere," she says slowly. "Just hear me out."

"I told you what you need to do."

"And I told you I'm not doing it. I'm not getting the others."

The others - nope, she absolutely isn't. He's in agreement with that. Not to be too full of himself here, but he's not sure how well anyone else would handle being held at gunpoint. He's doing pretty well if he's being honest, for someone that can barely think straight.

"You're going to."

"I'm not."

"Then I'll kill him first," he says, too casually. "Him, and then you, and I'll go find the other four once I'm done. We're getting the outcome we want."

"You can't seriously tell me you want this outcome. They didn't do anything to you. You don't want them dead."

"Oh, but I do."

"That's the President's brainwashing talking, you know."

He laughs, high and manic. "The President! You think I give a shit about the _President_? I've never answered to him. If I did I would've been dead a long time ago. We only listen to our kind."

He was right, he wants to scream, or sing, or whatever it appropriately loud enough. If ten Sentinels came out of the woodwork to kill them all what's a few more, right? If Andere's one of them, then the other woman has to be too. They work together, they came to the hospital together, and if it's not the President ordering them around...

It's someone else. And he's be willing to bet that someone is still on their list.

"I knew it," he says, muffled into the floor. "I knew one person couldn't have killed seven people in one night, not across the country like that."

"And does that s _atisfy_ you?" Andere asks, leaning down a bit. The pressure on his back is a little much. "I stayed here and did it, and she went out and dealt with the others. Happy now?"

"Very," he answers. Oh, this is going to be so satisfying now. Even more satisfying than he could have possibly imagined.

"You and who?" Pandora asks. "Eleine?"

Andere doesn't answer. It's pretty obvious, anyhow.

"Who told you to do it?" she continues. "I know it wasn't you. It wasn't Eleine either. Someone gave you orders, the same person that put this all together in the first place. Who was it, Andere? If you tell me—"

"If I tell you, what?" he shouts. "You'll let me go?"

Soran has no plans on letting him go. His fingers are so close now he can nearly feel it; he's got millimeters, if that. The pressure hasn't let up any but he's just not paying attention the way he should be. Soran's brain is admittedly moving slower than he'd like it to even on a bad day, but it's enough. He's going to get there any second now. Pandora's still talking, and he's going to get there.

His fingers, the very tips, brush against the edge of the stand.

He hooks one around it and pulls the whole thing over.

The stand tumbles over, and all the tools with it. Every single one of them comes crashing out over top of his arm but he still ends up going for the worst looking one, the poker of sorts. Andere jerks a little bit at the clatter and he heaves up the best he can, dislodging the foot for only a split second. A second is all he needs. He rolls to his side, sending him teetering him off-balance. The gun slips away - further, further.

It goes off an inch away from his head, rendering him nearly deaf. The bullet slams into the floor and creates a crack two feet long.

He tightens his grip on the poker, brings it up, and swings.

He has no idea where it connects, so he swings again. This time the gun hits the floor somewhere to his right, so he swings again. And again, and again, and again. He can barely fucking see. He can hardly hear what's going on.

He hits him again and Andere finally goes for the gun, wherever it's fallen. Suddenly there's a gap in front of him, free space to run, and that's exactly what he does. Pandora is still there, God only knows why. There's not an ounce of sense running through whatever this family has going on, and he can be lumped into that. He lunges up and nearly tilts over before she grabs his arm to pull him away even further.

He can't hear a word she says, but she looks very alarmed, off over his shoulder.

Andere has the gun again, he can see that much. He's half-focused on coming after them half fiddling with the gun, reloading or fixing it or pulling the safety back again. There's another bullet coming out any second now, and it's going to hit one of them.

And he really can't let that happen.

He hears himself free from her hold and her hand passes over his arm as she tries to grab hold again, but she's too late. He already knows what he's going to do; it's sharp enough. It has to work or this probably ends messier than he wants it to.

Andere looks up, finally. The safety clicks back again.

He rushes forward before he can get another step in and plunges the spike into his chest.

There's that brief, terrible moment of futile struggle. He forces it in further until it slides through easier; it must have come out the other side, but he can't see to tell. He won't let go and risk that.

The gun falls again, this time between the two of them, and he has enough frame of mind to nudge it away as gently as he possibly can.

Andere's full weight sags against him. He finally allows himself to let go, releases the metal handle where's there's already blood dripping over his own hands, warm and sticky between his fingers. Andere thuds to the floor at his feet, one hand reaching towards the stuck hole in his chest and the other stretching out towards the gun, but it's too far away.

He has a minute, if that. It went past the heart.

Pandora's hand curls around his arm again, just above the elbow, and she tugs him back a few paces. His whole body is thrumming with that nervous adrenaline but that doesn't overtake how badly she's shaking, practically clinging to his back like a limpet.

"Fuck," she says weakly, but she's so close he at least hears it.

Her other hand comes up to prod at the side of his head, like she's making sure the bullet missed. She sure would be able to tell if it hadn't, but there's no point in telling her that. If it _had_ hit him he'd be dead no matter what. Even if it had by some miracle stayed the hell away from his brain the disorientation of it almost getting there would've put him in the grave. Andere would've gotten there first.

But he didn't. And now he's completely still on the floor.

"What do we do?" Pandora asks, nearly into his ear. Maybe she's figured it out. "Shit, what do we do?"

Why is he expected to know? He never had to worry about this before. He never had to get rid of a body. He just sort of, you know, killed and then pretended it didn't happen. That was how it works.

How does this work, though?

Maybe none of this is processing right because his brain feels like gelatin inside his skull. That would explain it.

"Go," he starts. "Go get someone. Evander, or whoever. I don't really care."

"What about you?"

"What about me?" he asks. "We need to do something with him... get rid of him."

"You're bleeding."

"Hadn't noticed. Please go get someone. And take the gun."

She still looks petrified. Her eyes are huge. Okay, maybe he should be nicer right now, but it's hard. Not everyone has experience in dealing with bodies or murdering them, he's aware of that. There's not enough time in the world to beat around the bush when all they need to do is get rid of them.

She lets go and he reaches for the edge of the desk before he can go spinning about. No need to concern her even more.

Pandora scoops the gun up, giving it a look as if she expects it to bite her, and then disappears at a near sprint.

Okay, so she's going to go get someone. That's good. One thing checked off the list.

He takes one huge step away from the desk, wobbling just a little bit. " _Asshole_ ," he mutters, planting a foot against his chest and reaching back for the poker, tearing it free from his chest with an ugly sounding squelch. She has the gun. She _needs_ the gun. If Andere got in here somehow unscathed than there's no telling if someone else did, too.

With her gone he was hoping to work something out; a full-fledged plan, or even just an idea. Now that the adrenaline is wearing off though he's just unsteady, light-headed, leaning on the damned poker for support as he jabs it towards the ground. He needs more than that. The desk is right there, and the chair. That's what he needs. He's not going to collapse and black-out before someone gets back. He's hopefully not going to do it then, either.

He has to brace himself just to walk on his own. Every stationary object in the room goes spinning around him after two steps, and he blinks to clear some of the blood from his eyes. It's still coming, though. He gets rid of it and it's replaced by more a few seconds later. He allows himself to poke at his forehead for a few seconds until he finds the bloody cut jutting out from his temple, the skin torn outwards. No wonder his head hurts so bad.

He reaches for the chair and his hand passes through where he thinks it is three times over before he actually gets a hold of the armrest. He manages to scoot it even further away from himself first, tripping over his own two feet, and slams his hand into the desk in a desperate effort to stay standing.

An arm locks around his middle, stopping him from sliding to the floor in a pathetic, bloody little heap. The arm doesn't immediately try to fight him, so it has to be good.

Holy hell, though, that was fast. Or was it?

"No, no, I've got him," Evander says. Definitely good. He'll know what to do, maybe, probably. Not with the body, he's imagining, but maybe something to do with Soran's head. "Just get the chair."

Pandora grabs the chair he had been trying to desperately to get too and shoves it back towards him, directly underneath him. Evander deposits him in it but doesn't let go, grabbing his head before it can loll off the back of the chair.

"Please just deal with him," he tries. "Don't worry about me."

"Well _he's_ clearly not going anywhere, so I'm going to worry about you for a minute."

Alright, fair. He can't argue that one when he put a hole in the guy's chest. If he gets back up and starts walking around Soran is going to blame it entirely on the state of his head and not on any sort of realism.

"Oh, God, why is he bleeding so much?" Pandora asks, hovering and waving her arms like a bird. It's not helping.

"Head wound," Evander says. "Hey, look at me."

"I can barely see you," he informs him. A sleeve passes over his eyes and he squints them shut while some of the blood is wiped away. Afterwards he presses his covered hand over top of the wound, and while it stings it at least stems some of the blood dripping down his face.

Evander doesn't look quite as horrified as Pandora _still_ does, somehow, but it's pretty close if he had to guess. He doesn't know where to look, but he's lingering on the body more often than not.

"Just in case you were doubting the me killing people bit," he manages. "Thought I would confirm it."

"Thanks," Evander says flatly. "Fucking hell."

"We can take him to the doctor."

"And tell him _what_?"

"That he... fell?" Pandora tries.

"Pretty bad fall," he says, and gets flat out ignored. They're bickering about something, not in the way that she was with Andere, but bickering all the same. His head hurts too bad to focus on it. If Evander didn't have a hand on each side of his head to keep him facing forward he'd been out by now. And to think they have to go back to the courthouse tomorrow. Today, now. With one less prosecutor targeting them, no less. Eleine is not going to be pleased.

Oh God, he wants to laugh. They are not going to be impressed if he starts laughing.

He swallows it down, and rolls his head back a bit. Evander's hands come with him.

"Please go deal with him," he repeats. They better not make him beg. "You can't just leave him here."

"Well, what do you want me to do with him?"

"I don't know, take him out back and bury him? Dump him in the fucking creek? Does it look like I care?"

He really doesn't. If he had the steadiness backing him up he'd go and do it himself, but he doesn't. Pandora wouldn't be strong enough on her own to drag him out there. She'll have to supervise while Evander does the dragging and watch his back, but that's the extent of her participation. He doesn't know what he'll do in the meantime. Die, probably.

Evander shrugs off his sweater and presses it over top of the wound, flattening Soran's hand over it. "Keep that there."

He nods and listens, for the sake of everything going on. It's nice to be able to see.

Pandora grabs him, then, the second Evander gets up and moves on. They're all very handsy. "Listen to me. Stay here. As soon as he's outside I'll come right back."

He gives her a thumbs up with his free hand. She stares for a moment as if expecting him to launch himself out of the chair and run away from her. He'll admit, it would be tempting if he could run at all right now.

The second they're more than a few feet away he allows his head to roll back, taking some of the pressure off it. It feels like it's about to explode. He misses almost everything that happens and what exactly they're doing with the body. It's probably best that he doesn't know because then he'll never be able to answer questions. Questions, apparently, have gotten them in all the trouble in the world.

They leave, at long last. He chances a glance down at the risk of falling over; the body is gone. That's nice.

So that's one down. They have to deal with Eleine sometime, possibly tomorrow. Who knows what she's going to do when she realizes. There's still another person to consider as well. That third person is the real scary one, too, and the lesser of the two evils just tried to kill him. Or at least one did. He's beginning to realize just how bad this third person could be.

They're still trying. They tried to kill him, and they got the parents, and they're still trying.

That's an interesting thought. He got Andere, but what if...

What if he's not the only one here? If he's lucky the other four are still holed up in the same room, untouched, but it wouldn't take forever to find them. If Eleine's in here too, if the big bad third has finally decide to show their face, then this isn't over.

Okay, he didn't have any intentions to lie, but he's apparently lying.

And he's certainly not staying here.

Whoops.

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17  
Applicant #10**

* * *

He keeps falling asleep in increasingly terrible places.

He's not sure what's worse; the floor of Emmi's room, or this uncomfortable as fuck ottoman at the end of Tarquin's bed. Both suck.

It's the ottoman that's keeping him from properly falling asleep. It's lumpy as hell, and there's hardly enough room to turn over. He sleeps for a span of a few minutes and he's awake, staring into the darkness of the room, and then he falls asleep again.

He's not sure if he's awake or asleep when he hears the door click open, but he blinks and rolls over to face it, nearly tipping off onto the floor. He can just make out the shape lurking in the few inch wide gap between the frame and the door itself. It looks like Soran, if a blurry, almost shapeless figure around his height could be confirmed as looking like him.

"Oh, good. Nothing's happened in here."

It is Soran. Nice. One point to him.

"What?" he asks blearily. He closes his eyes again, stretching his arm out. "Get over here."

There's nowhere near enough room for the both of them on this thing, but he really doesn't care. He really will roll onto the floor and drag Soran down with him if that's what it takes.

There's a very lengthy pause. "If I do, you'll freak out."

"What?" he repeats. "Don't be an asshole."

He will not freak out, thank you very much. Why would he freak out? He cracks his eyes open but Soran hasn't moved, and he can't make him out any more than he could a minute ago. There's movement behind him, the creak of the bed, and then Emmi half sits up, blinking in the direction of the door. He waits to get snapped at, or told to shut up, but it doesn't come.

"Are you _bleeding?" s_ he asks eventually, and he blinks dumbly for a few seconds before he realizes she's not addressing him.

So she's addressing Soran, then? Why?

He sits up in a not very casual sort of way. Emmi reaches over the bed and nearly knocks the lamp off the table before she manages to turn it on, and only then does he allow himself to turn back around.

Soran freezes in the doorway. There's blood all over his face and stained into the collar of his shirt, in-between his fingers and streaked up his arms in a few places.

"No?" he tries, a second later, and then smiles.

"What the _fuck_?" he demands without asking any sort of real question. He gets to his feet and nearly falls over as they come alive again, reawakening with vicious pins and needles. It must be better than Soran, though, who he realizes is clinging to the door's edge tighter than he ever could have noticed with the lights off. He doesn't want to know what would happen if he let go.

He repeats it again, and then again. Over and over. By the time he reaches him Emmi has gotten up too; she drags Soran in and then slams the door shut. Ria and Tarquin have to be awake by now.

"Be quiet, would you?"

Soran nearly falls flat on his face and Icarus snatches him up before he can get any further away. There's blood on his own hands the second he grabs onto him.

"Please don't do that," Soran begs. "I'll throw up."

"I'd rather you didn't."

Emmi nudges them both in the direction of the bathroom. He's right - Ria is awake, now, and her eyes are as wide as saucers peeking out from under the blanket. She doesn't look like she wants to come out very much. Tarquin, though, is still out cold. Really, now of all times? Of course he is. Icarus' jealously is way past the roof at this point - it's thirty thousand feet in the air.

He pulls him into the bathroom with zero cooperation. Soran grabs his arm before he can reach for the light.

"Guess who I just killed."

"What the _fuck_ — no, why are you killing people?"

"Rich, coming from you. And you have to guess."

He ignores him and flips the light on. Soran's eyes squeeze shut. "Please turn that off."

"No, I need to see you."

"You see me literally every-day."

He hasn't been tempted to physically harm him in a very long time, but right now is coming pretty close. If he wasn't already covered in blood he'd feel more inclined to do it. Clearly someone already gave him a beating tonight, and it was apparently the person he killed? Oh, god. He'd be fine with literally anything else in the world happening right now, but not that.

He drops Soran on the edge of the tub and holds him up there until it appears he's gathered whatever remaining balance he has, which doesn't appear to be much at all. He's got one hand pressed to whatever must be stemming the flow of blood from his forehead and another shielding his eyes from the light now. Okay, so Icarus can't let go. He's not being responsible for dropping him backwards into the bathtub and killing him.

"You killed someone?" Emmi asks from the doorway.

"Sure did."

"Who? Why?"

"That _bastard_ ," he answers, which isn't at all helpful. "The fucking prosecutor guy, I can't remember his name again. And _he_ tried to kill me first, okay, so it was totally justified."

"Wait, _him_?" Emmi asks. "Vukovic?

"Yeah, sure. I don't think he's actually a prosecutor. Or maybe he was. I didn't ask him. Definitely a Sentinel, though."

"Oh my god," he laments. "There's no way that's a thing."

"It is, though. Totally is. The girl too, guaranteed, so we should probably watch out for her tomorrow. Today. What time is it?"

"Like, one," Emmi answers.

"So today. That's gonna be fun."

Soran can't even stand on his own yet again. That's apparently their definition of fun considering it happens every single time they need to do something even remotely important.

"But the list, we gotta do the list," Soran continues. "Whoever gave them orders is on that list, guaranteed."

"Stop talking about the fucking list for a minute."

"Someone just tried to kill me, and Pandora, and then was going to kill all of you. No."

"Aw, that's almost touching," Emmi says. "You killed someone for her."

"I killed someone because I didn't want him to put a bullet in my head."

"Sure," Emmi drawls. "And then you came right here to check on us. You have _emotions_! Feelings!"

"They're going to be mad at me," he says. It's a good thing he apparently can't focus on much right now because Icarus gets the sense some sort of fight would have dissolved out of anyone in this room having feelings for more than a second. Even if it is true. He knows it's true.

"Who?"

"Pandora and Evander. They went to deal with the body. They told me to stay put."

Icarus makes a face. Deal with the body, whatever was left of it anyway. He still hasn't asked, and frankly, he's not going to. Most of this blood is Soran's own he thinks, except for what's on his lone free hand. It couldn't have been that garish. There would be more evidence of it. Is that evidence of character growth, that he's not absolutely brutalizing people? Maybe.

Soran wobbles a bit, and he steadies him again. He looks like he's in a completely different place now that he's stopped talking.

Icarus sighs. "How badly concussed are you right now?"

"Oh, badly."

Emmi snorts. "Sorry, shouldn't laugh. That's not funny. I'll go... find them, I guess. If I have to. I'll let them know you're here. In the meantime can you like, fix him or something? Stop getting blood everywhere."

There's not much of it spread around, but it really is everywhere. There's speckles of it on the carpet, it's smeared on the door and all over the edge of the tub. It's what's causing Ria to stay so far away, no doubt. She's up now and looking but not _really_ \- she's trying to avoid the worst of it. No matter what this has done for them all it hasn't changed her stance on blood. She'll help if he asks, but she won't be excited about it.

Neither will he. And Emmi leaves, so he kind of has to do it on his own.

Soran's looking off into nothing again though, so he leaves him be for a few seconds and just holds onto him. He gently lifts away the makeshift bandage from his head; the wound is long, but not that wide or deep. He doesn't think it's bleeding anymore either, but he carefully replaces the blood-soaked scrap with a clean towel from the nearest drawer and holds it there just a little longer.

Soran looks at him. It feels like a good sign. "He killed your parents."

"What?"

"He admitted it. He stayed here and she went out to Three and Eight."

Ria goes stock still ten feet away even though he spoke quietly. Something wraps around his lungs and nearly crushes the breath out of them, an invisible pair of hands. He nearly chokes and starts crying all within the span of five seconds.

Eleine is still alive, and God can only predict what she's doing, but the one who got his...

He's dead. He's dead because Soran killed him and he knew when he did it.

It was more than just fear, more than just the possibility of a bullet in the head.

It was personal.

He swallows. "You know, I'd totally kiss you right now if you weren't covered in blood."

"Fuck you. You're a chicken."

"I'm sorry I don't want the taste of blood in my mouth for the next few hours."

"You're still a chicken."

"Say it again and I'll drop you."

"You're a chicken, and you would _never._ "

He wouldn't, and Soran clearly knows it. He sways again, though, and snaps one hand back into place at the edge of the tub. It doesn't really have to be there. Icarus can't and won't let go of him. He could probably fix this without anyone's help, without going to a doctor and trying to lie through his teeth about what had happened. It's not like he even really knows.

He could still cry at the thought of this all, a third over, maybe.

It's not all the way bad, though. He isn't sure why. It seems like it should be.

"I am dizzy as hell," Soran announces, like he hadn't made it obvious already. He slumps forward against his chest and tucks his head under Icarus' chin, leaning off the tub at a precarious angle. It takes a lot of rearranging to keep his arm propped up with pressure against the wound, but he makes it work. Normally he takes every little thing and treasures it, no matter how small the touch or gesture, but this is a whole lot more, especially coming from Soran of all people.

Soran who just nearly died _again_ when he didn't have eyes on him and who apparently feels safe enough right now to do this, even if it only lasts a minute.

Safe is good. He rather likes safe.

So maybe he's right in thinking it, in saying it.

It's really not all bad.

* * *

Somehow with one less POV this ended up being the longest 'In The Capitol' chapter so far which both... delights me and infuriates me. Apologies for the mammoth POV. It was too fun to be unavoidable, though it did get longer than even I intended.

Until next time.


	57. It's Your Funeral

LII: The Capitol - Panem Central Courthouse.

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17  
Applicant #13**

* * *

The courthouse almost seems more... somber. Funeral-like.

Someone did die last night, so maybe it's not terribly inaccurate. She doesn't think that should be affecting everyone though, especially the people milling around who are none the wiser to it. The splendid droves of innocents.

As if on cue, Soran gives her a look. She doesn't have the slightest clue what it means; he just looks exhausted. Not one of them slept last night after _the incident_ save for Tarquin, who they eventually had to wake up anyway. She had tracked down Pandora and Evander, who were in the midst of dumping something suspiciously body-shaped into the creek behind the cabin. That did wonders to the atmosphere.

So he's fixed, pretty much, but exhausted doesn't cover it. Nearly half his face is black and blue, and she's pretty sure there's still a bit of blood caked into his hair that no one bothered getting rid of. They bandaged his head, but that almost makes it more glaringly obvious. She wouldn't put it past Soran for this type of thing to be normal, but it definitely isn't here. Everyone that isn't them is staring openly, unabashedly. She can see the questions they refuse to say aloud.

What happened? How did it happen? What's going on? Is it something bad? When is it _not_ something bad these days?

Sometimes, though they're growing increasingly less frequent, Soran has the audacity to smile back at them. They look away quickly enough.

It's a lot of nerve for someone who can't stand without being held onto, is all. If Icarus isn't holding onto him any single step he takes is more of a generously sized wobble with no end in sight.

"Would you quit it?" she asks finally. "You're freaking everyone out."

" _You're_ not freaking out."

"Unfortunately for me, I'm used to it." She sighs. He smiles again, but at least this time it's directed at her. No one particular stranger has to run screaming in the opposite direction.

"Alright, you guys can go in," Pandora says. "We'll be there in a minute."

Icarus navigates Soran through the door without an issue, looking slightly too much like a traffic controller. Ria sighs nearly as loud as she did previously and follows.

She grabs a hold of Tarquin's arm before he can leave. "Hey."

There was a time, and she saw it just a bit in the beginning, where he looked a little bit nervous any time she showed direct interest in him. Maybe nervous wasn't the right word... uneasy almost fits better.

He hasn't looked that way in a while, but right now it seems fitting.

"Promise me you're not gonna take off," she says. "We can't go through it again."

"I wasn't planning on it."

"And were you planning on it the first time?" she asks, and guilt flashes through his eyes. "That's what I thought. Just please, for our sake but most importantly your own - not again."

"I won't."

"Swear?"

"Well, it's not as if they're giving us a recess for me to do so..."

She switches the grip on her arm to pinch just under his elbow instead, and he twists away but smiles, too. It's good to see him smiling. She still doesn't think it's all the way genuine most of the time, but right now it could be. When things are as dire and terrible as they've been of late she's willing to take even the possibility of it being genuine.

She still has a hold on his arm when he goes ramrod straight and he practically jumps under her hand. His eyes haven't fallen out of his head yet, but whatever he's caught sight of behind her has brought them pretty damn close.

Eleine is coming down the hall towards them. Not towards them, really, just to the doors, but it feels like she is. Emmi turns back to Tarquin just as quick.

"Stop staring," she insists. "Don't make it obvious."

"He's not going to show," he says under his breath. "Even if she somehow doesn't know he's dead..."

"She's about to, yeah. Go inside, I'll be right behind you."

He slips free from her hand and after the others. Both Pandora and Evander are still here, and the brief pause in conversation that transpired when one or both of them had caught side of her is gone now. At least someone is attempting to be subtle about that. Emmi edges a bit closer to them regardless; a chill goes up her spine as Eleine breezes by without so much as giving them a look. Crynn's in the other room, so she's not going to him.

Emmi doesn't want to know where she's going.

The Mervaine's have appeared at the end of the hall too, all four of them this time, just in time to see her disappear. It appears they're treating their kids to a spectacle today.

"Does anyone know what they talked about?" she asks quietly. "If they agreed on something?"

"Not sure it matters now," Evander murmurs. "If she finds out about Andere, who knows what she'll say."

"So you're saying Soran _shouldn't_ have killed him?"

"That's not what I'm saying at all. It just makes things more dangerous."

"Crynn can handle it," Pandora offers up, giving her a smile that doesn't look even the least bit reassuring. Soran didn't have a choice about killing Andere; it was that, or both him and Pandora ended up dead for it, and then the rest of them were next. She has no doubt about that. She probably would have never woken up from her sleep. Painless maybe, but not ideal.

It's hard when anyone could be on a side she doesn't expect. Pandora and Evander are trustworthy, sure, but who else? Crynn has to be whether she likes it or not. The Mervaine's have never given her reason not to trust them, but well they're... them. There's not much else to say on that front.

Just because those same members from the Federation are here back on their side of things today doesn't mean they're good. It doesn't mean they want the outcome she wants.

In truth, she just wants her Dad. She wants someone who would pick her without blinking.

"Hey, just go sit down," Evander says. "Take it as easy as you can. It's nothing you can change."

"Thanks for reminding me," she mutters, but heads for the door like a good, obedient little listener. It opens from the other side and nearly hits her square in the forehead before she can get there, but thankfully Icarus catches it before it can do just that. Even though it was him that did it in the first place. He leans all the way out and peers down the hall without ever stepping from the room.

"What are you doing?" she asks. "Move."

"I was informed your future boyfriend was out here."

"Excuse me?" she retorts. He puts a hand on her shoulder and literally pushes her a foot to the right to get a better look down the hall where she knows the Mervaine's must still be standing. Oh, for God's sake.

She sighs, and shoves him in the chest, but he doesn't budge. "Shut up for five minutes. Let me in."

"You should go introduce yourself."

"And say _what_? Hi, I'm Emmi, professional murderer and criminal, probably about to be sentenced to some prison time in about fifteen, give or take. Nice to meet you?"

"Well, that's not exactly what I was imagining, but sure." Icarus shrugs. "Who knows, maybe he's into that."

She looks up at him. "Not everyone's you and Soran."

"How unfortunate for them."

She shoves him again, harder, and this time he actually concedes to be pushed out of the way to allow her inside. It's for the best, because the longer she spent out there the closer she came close to dying on the spot. She doesn't often get embarrassed, almost never in fact, but this might get there. She'd sooner smite Icarus where he stood than let that happen.

Besides, they've got bigger fish to fry, and she's not sure the time is there. She's not sure it was around to begin with.

And who knows, maybe the only thing getting fried today will be them.

With one Sentinel dead, Eleine prowling around, and God knows what else out there, it certainly seems that way.

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16  
Applicant #17**

* * *

She hasn't felt her heart beat this hard in a while.

She knows why. Everyone does, and not one of them would blame her for it. Besides, the feeling is mutual. Tarquin looks very ill. Soran looks half asleep even though Icarus is reaching back over to prop him up and make sure he isn't every half a minute. Emmi paces a few more times and then sits down at the bench's end with a tremendous thud that shakes the entire thing.

"So," Tarquin says slowly. "Predictions?"

"You're getting less than the rest of us," Soran says.

"Why do you think that?"

"You know why."

"But I killed more—"

"More people, I know," Soran mumbles. Back to half-asleep again, and Icarus nudges him right on time. "It doesn't matter."

It matters, she knows, to Tarquin. Thirteen is a scarily big number. And to think he hadn't killed anyone before that, that he walked into it so willingly knowing what was going to come of it.

More and more these days, though, she's with Soran on this issue. It's thirteen people, but no one that had any connections. They have no family here. They have _nothing_ that's still tying them here save for the few guards left at the Witsonee station, what's left of them, and the person who killed them all. Tarquin can't do anything about that though.

What they did though, the four of them, that has consequences. She always knew it would even back when she thought winning was a possibility.

Tarquin doesn't look like he's having fun with that thought spinning around in his brain, but it's there and it's probably found a cozy little home the same way every bad thing she's done has. There's whole sections of her brain now dedicated and devoted to taking care of those things and nourishing them. Maybe it's bad to be taking care of them, but she can't let herself forget them. If she does than everything she did becomes distant, unimportant. The people she knew, the ones that are dead because of her... they don't deserve that.

Maybe they're the only ones who deserve what's coming to them.

One by one everybody else that matters even the slightest files in and sits down. It's a quiet affair, like a procession. It feels like everybody's bracing for a hit.

She's tucked too far down the bench, all the way at the very end, for it to be literal.

They're not even told to stand this time when the Judge walks in, for what reason she's not sure. It's a picturesque scene, the same as last time. The judge takes his seat, the translator to his left stands up. Only Andere is missing, a glaring and jagged hole torn in the middle of the room that could be replaced by the bruising all over Soran's face.

Eleine looks over once and settles on it. Ria blinks and her eyes are back on the front of the room once again.

"Will the defendants please rise?"

She doesn't want to, but she listens. It would be beyond awkward if she was the only one that chose to stay sitting after such a request. There are officers around here somewhere - she knows it. If she didn't listen who knows what they'd do to her.

Unlike before not everyone turns to look at them. Maybe because it's easier trying to face an individual. When all five of them are on their feet and facing it that's a lot to take on, even for the strongest people.

"As previously discussed we the people find the defendants on the count of all charges guilty as admitted."

She's still not happy about that, but who cares? No one. That's right. And that's probably how it should be.

"The decision in sentencing with the disqualification of a jury was left to both agreements between the parties and myself, however it appears today we have an important absence," he says. "Miss Tarigan, is there a reason we should be aware of for Mr. Vukovic's lack of attendance?"

Eleine straightens in her seat and then stands, silent as ever. Her face is almost impassive all the way through, but at the edge of it she almost looks confused. It's like she truly doesn't know where Andere's gone, or why he's chosen now of all times to go missing.

But she knows. Ria feels it without a doubt.

"Not that I'm aware of, Your Honor."

It's lies, all of it. This whole thing feels like a farce. Sometimes she still doubts that she's not imagining this, that whatever's going on in her brain now has twisted reality and spit it back out all sorts of messed up.

The Judge nods, flipping through something in front of him. He coughs a few times, almost uneasily. Each one makes her sit up straighter.

"As all parties must reach agreement and as there is no signature from nor any hide or hair of presence it is difficult, to say the least, to go forth with any sort of decision possibly made between the parties," he says slowly. There's a little murmur that goes up behind her and then practically swells over her head. Crynn blinks a few times and his eyes get wider each one, until he gets to his feet inch by inch.

Something awful sinks into her stomach, an entire rock or maybe just the contents of her abdomen. Everything feels out of place.

"Mr. Sylvaine says the documents were signed during their last meeting," the translator says. The Judge examines them again. She sees him peer down, adjust his glasses, scan a finger over numerous lines.

And she knows without properly knowing that there's nothing there.

She's never had much of a mouth on her, but _fucking_ Sentinels. She hates them when she's never hated anything in her life before.

"I have no signature here, Mr. Sylvaine, besides yours and Miss Terigan's. If there is disagreement or turmoil in the agreement then with the government's permission and through the word of President Archeron in the matter of the case the sentencing decision falls on myself; in turn I have considered many possible punishments for these individual crimes."

"Is anyone else thinking what I'm thinking?" Icarus asks, but she barely hears him. There goes the roaring in her ears.

"Did he... did he _let_ me kill him?" Soran asks. He finally looks awake.

And there are the options, or at least the other one they were missing. Andere kills them all - that was the first. But if he were to die, what's the back-up plan? How do they make sure they still win? They may not be prosecutors in truth but they know how this works, the ins and outs. They knew what this would do.

Maybe this was never the back-up plan.

Crynn has no say, now. None of them do. It's the word of the government and the Judge and the President, all of whom have probably wanted them gone since the beginning. And if that's the case...

"Oh, we're dead," Emmi says, before she can even think it.

And there, finally, is the truth.

"As I'm sure you're all aware there has been much publicity surrounding the outcome of this sentencing and the events that have surrounded it," he continues. "Tragic events, terrible events. Ones that were ultimately preventable. Nine years ago a few select people made the choice to end the most barbaric thing this state has ever known and since then the country has done its utmost to uphold that. To ensure that it would never happen again."

Preventable how? They're the only ones looking for the true culprit, and who knows if they'll ever even get that. They may be the monsters in this but someone still has to be held responsible for creating them.

Across the aisle, she thinks she sees the smallest flicker of a smile grace Eleine's otherwise cold face.

"Any loss of life, especially such young life, is a tragedy," he says. "And the evidence in which I have been presented with is something I had hoped to never see in y lifetime. We did not, as a country, lose nineteen lives - we lost twenty-four. Twenty-four minds, twenty-four futures. I have no doubt that the five of you had different paths before today, but it is this court's judgement and through your own admittance of guilt to these brutal crimes that there is only one fitting outcome. To keep this country safe, to keep our children safe, and to ensure it never happens again, the options have dwindled down to one. All five of you for your crimes shall be put to —"

Ria goes somewhere else to avoid hearing the word _death_ , but it does nothing for everyone else. There the wave comes again. It's bigger, the crest more powerful, and someone's going to drown. It's probably going to be her.

There's noise around her, so much that it could be consuming, and once again she lets herself go into her own head. It's safer there, at least for her. There's yelling, shouting. More people on their feet than their should be.

Without knowing how, she's sitting back down on the beach. She can hear the feel death perfectly formed and shaped in his mouth but can't imagine how it sounded aloud. She doesn't want to.

She didn't even hear anything else. How? When? Is it happening right now? Long gone are the days where it took years - it could happen today, if they wanted. She tries to shove down the hysteria at the thought of it, but it's not going to happen.

She doesn't quite stand up as she grabs at the back of the bench in front of her and holds on for dear life. They can't kill her if they can't pry her off, right?

They probably can. They do whatever they want.

And this time, they're going to kill them.

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17  
Applicant #10**

* * *

Well, at least they're not in handcuffs.

It's a low bar, alright. You don't have to tell him that.

Instead of handcuffs they're going to be allowed to spend their last few, precious days in the only place they've known since they got back. With more security, he reckons. They won't be leaving until it's execution time.

Execution time, right. Because that's going to happen. They're getting executed.

There's no appealing something they're guilty of by admittance, he thinks. Maybe that's wrong, but he doesn't know any better. It's more likely that no one would let them appeal anyway; it's been quickly proven that this isn't how it works here. He used to trust this place a whole hell of a lot. Thrive in it. And now he's going to die in it like every other Capitol citizen, like his parents.

He has never once envied Estella for dying in One, for dying at all before things got even worse, but he almost does now.

Somewhere along the way after Tarquin fuses to the courtroom bench and actively refuses to get up, after Ria locks herself in one of the bathrooms and Emmi threatens to crawl underneath the door to get her out, they let him outside. He doesn't remember asking, mostly just moving in a direction that led _away_ from the source of the chaos. He had a voice, for a while, but anger at this point could only last so long. Most of the fight he had in him was long drained out by now. He couldn't fight the whole world when it was against them.

The grounds out the side door are blissfully quiet though he's followed by no less than three guards, and that's just what they can see. One each goes to each end of the fencing and hedges obscuring the road and another stays in the doorway, looming like a giant.

There's no way they're getting away now.

Especially not Soran, who probably couldn't run anyway, and who is definitely only out here with him because he dragged him. He should be sitting down like Tarquin. He shouldn't be here at all.

He lets go of him with a sigh, rubbing a hand over his forehead. "Sorry."

"For what?"

"Making you come out here. You could be sitting, you know. Resting."

Soran grabs a handful of the unfortunate shrubbery in order to keep from keeling over and then plops down in the grass with a thud. "I can sit right here. And I'm going to be getting plenty of rest once I'm dead."

He navigates a path around him, pacing down the narrow stretch of about five feet of grass. He doesn't want to get any closer to the guards than he has to.

Soran squints up at him. "Too soon?" he continues.

"Yeah."

"Got it."

He lets himself pace faster. He's going to wear a hole in this grass today, damn it, no matter how long it takes. He's got nothing better to do except die, apparently, and he doesn't really want to do that.

"This is fucked up," he says some time later. He hasn't hit dirt yet, but soon. "Can they do this? I know they can but like, what the fuck? And how does Tarquin get the same damn thing? They can go on and on about nineteen this and nineteen that but he didn't even kill any of them, for fuck's sake, so how does that work?"

"No idea."

"And sure, nobody wants any more dead kids! But let's quickly kill five more just in case."

"Solid plan. A-plus."

"Is it even legal to execute kids?"

"Is it legal to kill people at all?"

"Not my point," he says. This time he navigates too close and has to step over Soran's legs to avoid stepping on him at all. "This is just fucked up. All sorts of fucked up. I don't wanna die."

He turns around, and Soran's eyes are closed. He walks all the way up to him and pauses over top of his legs. "Are you seriously sleeping right now?"

"No," he answers, though he doesn't open his eyes. Icarus crouches down before him and leans in just over halfway to gauge some sort of reaction, but he doesn't even twitch. It's not his entire weight that's leaned back into the shrubbery, but it's infringing on pretty damn close. If he lets go anymore he's going to fall through the entire hedge.

"You know, you're astonishingly calm for just being told you're getting executed," he points out. "It's almost enough to make me angry."

"Too tired to care," he mumbles, but at least he moves this time, shoulders up-ticking into a small shrug. "Can't fucking do anything about it anyway."

He's felt bad since he dragged him out here but overwhelmingly so now. He's going to go to sleep in the grass if Icarus lets him, and he's almost tempted to do so. In that vein, what is anyone going to do about it? The guards are keeping an eye on them but if one even stretches a hand forward he's going to bite at it like a snappy little dog. He almost wishes one of them would try it.

He doesn't enjoy being the one that _has_ to snap and get angry, but he feels like he has to be now. It's hard to feel any other way when Soran's about two minutes from comatose in the grass at his feet.

Icarus settles down beside him and tugs him forward so that he's leaning against his chest and not the bushes. The path he's wearing in the grass can wait a while.

Soran is tired, clearly, but he's passed that into exhaustion if he's surrendering to this and going completely boneless, face tucked into the side of his neck. He allows himself one squeeze around his back because he can do that without any painful repercussions finally. It's his face he has to watch out for now, and he can't even see a sign of it now.

"We could do something, I think," he supposes, though keeps the idea under his breath.

"Yeah. Maybe."

"If we could pull a name out of that big, dumb list—"

"It's not dumb."

He ignores him. It's definitely dumb. "If we find that one person, and Eleine is still alive, we can shift the blame. Take the heat off of us. They might re-open it."

"And then what?"

He sighs. "I don't know. We just need something."

"This is really my fault," Soran says. "I killed Andere, and him not showing up fucked us."

"And what were your other options in that scenario?"

"Someone else would have come up with one."

"You're not someone else. You saved your own life, and Pandora's, and possibly all of ours too. That _was_ the option."

"I saved our lives for a few more days - what was the fucking point?"

He learned that he was spared, somehow, last night. Early this morning, really. It's Tuesday. They have until Friday morning to figure something out. The clock is ticking much too fast; four days might not be enough. Even if they find out it might not be. By then will anyone care beyond the people who already do? Their lives are getting thrown away lock and key. Nobody would care.

He just wants to know. If he's going to die he wants to know the reason behind it. He wants to know who put him here.

And he kinda, sort of, wants to slit their throat, but that's a problem for another time.

Soran readjusts with a soft exhale against the base of his neck, just enough for it to tickle. The longer he lets him stay like this the higher the chance gets that he's going to sleep, and he won't have a choice about moving then. One of the guards is already giving them a peculiar look as if he's spontaneously started sprouting more limbs. He'd give the guy the finger if he had a spare hand to do so.

"Do you think lethal injection hurts?" he asks. He's wondering, so he has to say it.

"God, and I thought what I said was dark," Soran mutters. "I'm delighted to say I don't currently know, and I'd get back to you on Friday afternoon, but I don't think I'll be able to."

It's got to hurt some. The sheer terror of it all probably hurts enough as is, the grip of a hand around your heart.

Through all of this, or at least most of it, he was just hoping to die painlessly. Quickly. That's all he was asking for.

He's not even going to get that.

"I don't wanna die," he says again. He'll say it many more times before this is over.

"You know, I'd let everyone in this city die if it meant we could live."

Icarus does know it. It doesn't scare him, because he knows Soran would do it for him - for the five of them. Once upon a time in some fucked up fairytale land that would have terrified him. There are fragile, innocent people here by the thousands, children who could've had the same fate had they been chosen instead, and he doesn't care about any of them. He cares about _this_ and how he has less than four days left with it.

He never knew it years ago, when he was part of the problem, but this place is sick. No one's found a cure yet. He'd let everyone here _burn_ to get rid of that. To make it better.

He's still part of the problem, and he knows it. He's as bad as the rest of them.

At least he can admit it.

He has no control over this city though, no say in what happens within it. There's only one practical thing that _is_ still under his control. It's the one thing that's keeping him from screaming to the heavens, from burning something to the ground just before he himself goes on an otherwise commonplace Friday morning, a needle stuck in his arm.

He's going to find out who did this.

They've still got help. There are more people here, he knows, that are willing to step in. They have less than four days to do it. It's not going to take that long, though. He's not going to let it. He _can't_ let it.

Whoever it was, whoever it is, they're going down with him.

And they're going down sooner rather than later.

* * *

 **Jordan Carvallo, 22  
Member of the New Haven Federation**

* * *

They've always trusted each other to a fault.

That's how it works in the Federation. They cross District and Capitol lines to get along, for the well-being of the people they represent, and for most of them that's it. Waylon's the exception, and he's it. She likes most of the others.

Key word being _most_.

It comes to a point though where shit like that doesn't matter. She knew kids that died in the Games. More than one reaped right out of her grade down the aisle from her in the pens. Her neighbor's oldest daughter back when Jordan was just a little girl with hardly any concept of the atrocity that was about to be brought down on her.

And nothing good has ever come from those atrocities.

She has her allegiances - to Ten, and to her family, and to Waylon. And that's it, normally.

This isn't normal.

It took her a long time to get over the grandiose appearance of Rose Point Estate - that's what growing up on a farm did to you when you eventually ended up here. It's the feeling of not belonging that still hits her the hardest sometimes even when people seem to want her here, even when they include her. The feeling that something's wrong will never go away, though.

There's all the signs that she still doesn't fit even though she appears that way. At the risk of sounding egotistical she _knows_ people like her, respect her. In the very least the otherworldly facade at least makes them even if it's not genuine.

Pandora is not a normal, established human being. Jordan herself would never just let people into her home like this, not when she doesn't know the deepest parts of them, and especially not to help with something this important. They need all the help they can get, sure, but who's to say Jordan is actually here to help? It appears that Pandora may be the naive one here, so it's a good thing she's not about to take advantage of it.

She's not sure how more people haven't by this point in her life.

Waylon adjusts his legs where they're draped over her lap and slips an inch closer to going over the edge of the couch. His head is already dangling off and nearly his shoulders now too, the tablet he's clutching in his hands hanging precariously over his head as he holds it up to read. He's asking for it laying like this.

It's away from the clamoring that's going on in the office, though. There's too many people in there and not enough safe. They're all trying to figure out the same thing, here. You'd think everyone could be quieter about it.

It was an easy mutual agreement between the two of them to take their leave only a little bit deeper into the library. He had taken his tablet and her a stack of files that no one currently had their grubby little hands all over.

If someone needs them, they'll come looking.

Besides, Waylon seems to be set on a track whereas everyone else is spinning in circles. It's good to have a direction to head in.

"You really think it's one of us?" she asks.

"I mean it has to be, right? The chances of it being someone from the Capitol if it's a Sentinel are like, astronomical."

"But it could be."

"Oh, it could be," he agrees. "I just don't want to miss something because we think we know these people. We don't, really."

She doesn't like it, but it's true. Beyond Kestrel, Pandora, and he who is currently taking up most of the couch space, which of them does she really know? Wendell, maybe? Rocco passes through Ten a lot when they're all home, but they don't talk much. Certainly not enough to say she knows him and trusts him enough not to do this.

"So it's not me or you, obviously," she says. "It's not Pandora, it's not Kestrel."

"Can't be Wendell or Leopold, either. Wendell's had a fifty-year presence in Eleven and Leopold's been working with the government for too long."

That leaves just over half of them. She scribbles the seven remaining names in the margin of one of the files she's got over top of Waylon's legs. Ophira, Eriska, Nyle, Marza, Eilon, Scarlet and Rocco. If she had to hazard a guess she'd say Nyle is the biggest snake of them all, save for maybe Leopold, but that doesn't mean he's a bad person. It doesn't mean he got so many people killed.

She's a lot of help, here. She stares at the names and tries to make sense of it while Waylon keeps on whatever it is that he's doing. Cross-referencing, she thinks. They all went through background checks when they got into the Federation. Any false information, any lies, it's something they can find. Something they can use.

"You still have those files on Andere and Eleine?"

She nods and hands him the two pieces of paper complete with the photos of their much younger faces, their real names. It's no wonder they weren't recognized when someone went through all of the Sentinel files in the first place. Keir Hamilton and Nanami Scriven, District Six and Four, respectively. They were practically _babies_ , fourteen and sixteen years old when they were collected and brought in. They were survivalists, not fighters. They didn't have enough time with the Sentinels to be trained otherwise.

"You think Nyle or Marza then, maybe? District connections?"

"That's what I'm looking at."

She's praying it's not either of them, but what's the alternative? It's one of the other five, then? That's not any better.

The two of them are attached to another, longer page. The rest of the kids they were grouped with - five more, seven in total, and the older woman who must have been responsible for training them. Not one of them was over eighteen. Clearly they were new recruits, fresh blood. Despite the possibility of names being changed she doesn't recognize anything from the other five, fresh-faced and too young. Probably all dead now, save for Eleine. Namani. Whatever her fucking name is.

"Hey," she says. "Waylon."

"It's not Nyle or Marza. Swear."

"Look up the name _Leandra Priestly_."

He does so, she can tell by the renewed tapping of his fingers, but gives her a curious look. "Who's that?"

"The one responsible for them, looks like."

Waylon goes tapping away, skimming over something that pops up. "Mostly just copies of a missing persons report from... jesus, over forty years ago. District Two, age sixteen the last time she was seen. Just another one they picked up."

She dislodges his legs and wiggles her way down onto the couch next to them until they're pressed together from shoulder to hip. He holds the tablet up above her head to give her a better look. The photo on the missing report isn't the same one in the Sentinel files; she looks even younger in this one, happier. Like nothing bad had ever happened to her. She clearly wasn't a Career judging by the size of her, the carefree gleam in her eyes. And Jordan doesn't recognize her either, there's no way she could with a young face from that long ago, but something is itching in the back of her mind and she doesn't like it one bit.

"What are you thinking?" Waylon asks.

She sits up and snatches the tablet out of his hands, nearly knocking him off the couch. He hauls himself up after her, fingers locked into the cushion's fringes, but lets her have it. He cocks an eyebrow up, giving her a curious look.

She doesn't want to be right. She's never wanted to be wrong about something more in her life.

"Forty-four years," she says slowly. "She'd be sixty now."

"Okay?"

There's only one person out of the five remaining that this photo could belong to. Forty-four years apart, a jump from sixteen to sixty. No one would recognize her. Jordan pulls up the second photo to hold alongside the file she has in her hand. There are obvious differences, almost all from age, but the itch won't go away. This is a face she saw just earlier today in the courtroom, one that's always been so kind and supportive. One that's always been on the right side.

"She was at the fucking hospital with them," she says. "Her, Eleine and Andere. They were all there this whole time."

Waylon blinks. "Are you talking about..."

She turns the tablet around along with the file in her left hand. It's shaking, now. She hadn't realized. Two photos forty-four years apart and somehow they're still undeniable.

"Eriska?" she breathes. "Yeah."

He blinks a few more seconds away. His eyes get wider with each one. His jaw works and then opens and closes a few times. She waits for him to tell her she's wrong, for something that will make this a mistake. Nothing comes.

Nothing comes, because she's right.

They've found their culprit.

They fucking found her, and Jordan almost wishes they hadn't.

Waylon stands up, slowly. His eyes never leave the photos she's presented him with; it's an awful juxtaposition to how she feels. She never wants to look at them again. She can't or she might be sick.

He takes a deep breath. "Pandora!"

* * *

*eye emoji*

All this way just for this? Guess you'll see, sooner rather than later. Not many chapters left at all, even including the epilogues!

Until next time.


	58. Six Feet Under

LV: The Capitol - Rose Point Estate.

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17  
Applicant #10**

* * *

He should've known with how today had gone.

He said he didn't have nightmares. Maybe his brain wasn't wired that way.

And maybe he's wrong, too. He doesn't know anymore.

The worst part is he knows where he is when his eyes are open, and it's not where he fell asleep. He's on his feet, now, and the air is cold, cold like it was back in November. He's not wearing a coat this time like he was back then. None of it seems very sensible.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep, he doesn't think. His intention had been to get Soran to sleep and then help the others, to figure this out. Had he laid back to rest just a second too long, enough to go under? It seems that way. And now he's dreaming, lost in an unusual space except it's familiar. This was the time of year that One got properly scary - the only time, really. Everything was gray and bleak and the trees stretched up into the sky like skeletons. The wind would get so cold before the snow started falling that it could freeze you where you were standing.

What he told Soran wasn't a lie - none of his nightmares were really that. They were just memories. Twisted, awful versions of them.

Except this isn't twisted. It's normal. It's how everything looked in the long, cold days after she died.

The cemetery looks the same. Stark and empty, splashes of artificial flowers dotted in the middle. All the way down the row where he knows she is there's no headstone; there wasn't, not until a few weeks after. Apparently things like that took a while to get made. He hadn't had a single clue until then.

The worst part is the dirt, still overturned and in a heap where it was disturbed. It doesn't look like that _now_. It's evened out. The grass has grown over it.

It's harder to look at like this.

There's really no one here. Usually there's at least one; if not another visitor, than a groundskeeper somewhere off in the distance. No matter how far he looks there's nothing. Even One on the fringes looks like it's barely there, a few distinct shades of gray and nothing more.

He looks back and she's there, somehow. Estella in all her glory.

Not really, though. She looks even fainter than the skyline did, shimmering in places. See through. She's looking right at him, expressionless, but she looks _good_ for lack of a better term, even half-there. She looks like she did before all of this happened - healthy and every-day normal, no shadows plaguing her face. It was an image he was forgetting quicker than he would have liked.

There was never anything to fear, and she's not really there. He knows it even as he gets closer closer, until he's standing at the opposite side of the mound from her. It doesn't even look like she's really standing.

Because she's not.

"This isn't real," he tells her. It feels like a point he has to prove.

"Did you think it was?"

Her voice is jarring, and he finds himself flinching, but keeps his feet planted where they are. She smiles, just the littlest thing. Okay, maybe it is twisted, then.

"No."

"You always were a hard one to fool."

"That's me," he says weakly. He feels paper thin right about now, like someone could put a hole straight though him. He knows she's not, but she looks so real. She's standing on top of her own grave but she looks real.

He's standing on it too, he realizes. He looks down and kicks at some of it, trying to put himself back on even ground.

"You're going to end up in one of these in a few days," she says, so calmly that he doesn't even have the nerve to look up at her. "How do you feel about that?"

"How do _you_ feel about that?"

"About myself, or you?"

"Both."

She laughs. It's finally something that sounds artificial. It never did before. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Why are you talking to me then if you're not going to tell me?"

"Oh, this isn't me talking to you, babe. This is all your own head."

Well, that's a lovely thing to have confirmed. He was already aware that he was sleeping, thank you very much. Trust his stupid fucking brain to make all of this up and put her here too when he was working on letting go of her. When he was making _progress_.

"I know you don't think you wanna die, but are you sure?"

"I don't."

"Then why are you here?"

"I didn't ask to be here."

"Then _why_ are you here?" she repeats. " _I'm_ the one that's already dead; you're the one standing over a grave right now."

Fuck, he is, isn't he? He doesn't know why.

"You were sure you didn't want to die?"

"I was."

"But not anymore?" she guesses.

"It's not like it fucking matters, does it?" he spits. "It's like you said, I'm gonna be dead in a few days anyway."

"But you could do it right now, too," she tells him. "Just go to sleep and never wake up. That's what I did. It didn't hurt any. It was just going to sleep."

He didn't want to go to sleep in the first place - he didn't. He wanted nothing to do with that. He had things to do, things to figure out, and now he's here and he doesn't fucking want to be. Or maybe he does. His brain certainly wants to be. He doesn't know anymore, and that's the worst part. Everything is too fast and too confusing. And she's not telling the truth, either, because it's not painless. It fucking hurts.

She holds out a hand. It looks completely solid, but he's not sure he could grab onto it.

Not without repercussions.

He should step away, too, but he doesn't. He knows why.

"You could come with me, you know," she offers. That's exactly what her hand is - an offer.

"I can't."

"You can, though. Like I said, it's easy. The easiest way to go."

And it would take one second, too. All he'd have to do is grab onto her hand and hold on for dear life and then life itself would be over. He could go down easy, where nothing ever happened, where it was finally quiet.

Where everything was painless, just the way he wanted.

"I can't," he says again. "I— I can't."

Can he?

Her face darkens, and she vanishes. He's left standing there on the mound alone as the temperature drops again, several degrees all at once. He's left shaking there in the dirt with no one there. It still doesn't feel like anything's real.

Something lashes around his ankle, whipcord tight, something sharp digging into his skin.

And then the air's gone.

He's getting dragged underground.

It's moments that don't even feel that long. Waist, shoulders, head, and then the last grip his left hand has on the top of the mound disappears as he's dragged below it into the earth underneath. Everything plunges into darkness, every inch of him left exposed to the dirt swallowing him whole. That grip is still there, too, pulling him ever so further down.

There's dirt in his mouth and filling his throat. He can't breathe. Even if it would let go, even if he had time to get back up, he can't breathe. He's choking to death underground surrounded by the earth and he's got no way out.

He didn't even know if he wanted to die. He had no idea.

And he is, and it hurts like hell, and then he wakes up.

There's light, suddenly. The room's not all the way dark; he wasn't meant to fall asleep. He knows that now. In his quest to free himself from the bed he hits the nightstand and then the floor in one spectacularly graceless roll, on his hands and knees. That's where he stays when he finds out, quite suddenly, that none of his limbs are working. He's fucking broken.

And he's still drowning, too. There's dirt all the way down his throat, into his lungs. He can't breathe through it.

He retches once, and once he starts he can't stop. He even goes so far as to stick a hand into the corners of his mouth to scoop some of it away, but nothing comes out. All he gets for it trouble is a choking fit that doesn't stop when he almost jams his whole hand down his throat and nearly vomits onto the carpet.

A hand touches his back, or at least something does, and he chokes again and flinches all in the same beat. He almost starts dragging himself in the opposite direction but his arms can't cooperate to do so.

"You know it's me, right?" Soran says, and he nearly starts crying at the sound of his voice. There's been a lot of that going around for him tonight.

"No," he chokes. "No, I didn't, I—"

He doesn't know. He doesn't know anything. When has he?

He chances a glance over. His eyes are so blurry with unshed tears that he can barely see Soran crouched to his right hand, one hand outstretched. The one that touched him in the first place. It looks like her hand did before she rescinded it, before she tried to drag him under too.

And Soran's not going to do that, is he?

He hopes not.

There are tears down his face, now. He doesn't know if he's really crying or if his eyes just couldn't hold anymore after the choking. The taste of dirt is still heavy in the back of his throat, clinging there stubbornly. It wasn't ever there because none of it was ever real, and he knew that.

Nothing like that _should_ seem so real.

"I'm sorry," he manages eventually, though he still can't move. Baby steps.

"For what?"

"I don't know. I don't know if I want to live, either."

"What changed in the past eight hours for you to get to that point?"

"I don't know," he repeats. "I don't know. I'm sorry."

His hand is still there, hovering inches away. Is he ever going to drop it? Icarus doesn't know what either of them are hoping for, at this point. Soran's not going to hurt him because that's not a thing anymore, never was in the worst sense. He's definitely no longer in the department of actively trying to kill him. So what's he afraid of, then? The unblurred line between tears coming out because there was no place for them to be held and outright crying? He's pretty sure he's crying now. All of it hurts too bad for him to not be crying.

He can't even begin to grasp at how he felt earlier. The anger is gone, the determination. He's exhausted.

Icarus resists the overwhelming urge to collapse to the ground and shuffles over a few inches, still on his hands and knees. He senses the moment Soran's hand leaves open air and hovers over his back against instead. It's still not dropping.

He waits there until it does, though, where it settles gently between his shoulders and stays there. There's no pressure whatsoever, just the softest, somehow most reassuring weight and his thumb stroking slowly back and forth where it lands.

Okay, everything's fine. His skin is crawling, coming alive with everything that was there underground with him for a minute, but he's fine.

He looks over again. Soran hasn't moved an inch beyond that and is just staring at him, looking confused and slightly concerned, maybe. The confusion he gets; he's still there himself. The concern, though, that's new. Soran's concerned and it's directed at him. That's weird.

He might cry a little bit harder at the thought of that, but Soran doesn't comment. He's probably just getting used to Icarus crying on the floor.

"I don't think you wanna die," Soran says eventually.

"I'm glad one of us thinks that."

His voice is hoarse like he was screaming, like he hadn't used it for days. No, he was just dying, choking and dying and suffering all over again.

"You really don't think that?" he continues. He probably sounds desperate.

"I don't, no."

"Okay," he settles on. He still sounds like he's dying. If Soran thinks that then maybe that's enough for now. It sort of has to be.

"You're okay," Soran says.

"You believe that?"

"You told me that, once, and it turned out to be true. So yeah, I do."

Are they just going to keep reversing positions until one of them dies? One of them huddled up on the floor, the other one dealing with it? At least Soran hasn't burst into tears on him yet; he might not survive that. Either of them, honestly.

He nods. The truth works in mysterious ways, but at least it works at all.

Soran's okay now, so maybe he might be soon. He might die before he gets there, just like Estella so helpfully reminded him.

Even if he's not, at least he didn't give in now. At least he lived while he had the chance to.

That might mean more than he thinks, when the end comes.

* * *

 **Soran Faerber, 19  
Applicant #8**

* * *

They sit that way for the better part of a half hour.

He doesn't allow himself to move even though it feels like he should be doing something else. Icarus actively tried to get away from him the first time he tried like the touch had burned him, like it was worse than what Soran knew it was. That was clearly the case.

So he just... sits there, really, and lets Icarus come to him. And he does, in little increments. First he slides over some more, until Soran's arm is draped all the way across his back. He keeps his hand where it is. Eventually, and in a painfully slow manner, he leans over and drops his chin onto the back of Icarus' shoulder. He's still deliriously tired, and his neck has started to hurt for whatever possible reason it could be fucking hurting now. Icarus leans in again and nudges him at the action, but not away.

He stays where he is.

It ends with Icarus practically half in his lap, but not really clinging onto him. He's holding onto himself more than anything.

Soran knows the feeling of trying to keep yourself together all too well.

He's still unfamiliar with the navigation of all of this. It feels like he should ask - he wouldn't want anyone asking him, but people are different. Maybe Icarus wants him to. On the other hand it appears as if he's gone mute, which is a rarity. Soran doesn't know if he would get anywhere right now even if he did ask. The best course might be to continue as he's doing and just let Icarus do or say whatever he wants on his own terms.

He shifts a bit, and Soran's chin knocks into his shoulder again. He's back to rubbing anxiously at his throat, nails scraping against skin. There's ugly blotches of red spread from the top of his neck to the bottom.

He's not going to ask.

"Do you want me to get you something?" he asks instead. It's a safer route, one that he knows.

He knows all about leaving, but at least this time he'd come back.

"Like what?"

"I don't know, a drink or something? Food? You sound like you've been hacking up your lungs for a week."

That he has experience with. It was totally different, and he's all too aware of that. After all he wasn't the one practically sticking his whole arm down his throat like he was trying to make the entire contents of his stomach come back up. Soran still feels his whole body heave occasionally like he's about to throw up before he calms himself back down.

Icarus sits up a bit, though he's still sitting on him and now his bony ass knees are jabbing into Soran's ribs.

They're trading off looking like they've been through the ringer. He's not sure what would happen if they both went down the tubes at the same time. It feels like a social experiment waiting to happen.

"You should be asleep," Icarus settles on, rubbing a hand over his eyes. _He_ looks like he should be asleep, and Soran was, to be fair. He was until Icarus kicked him and nearly sent him flying out the other side of the bed in his quest to get out of it and onto the floor, no further progress to be had.

"So I should," he agrees. "But I'm not, so."

"Just to the kitchen?"

"I'll come right back."

He feels like a broken record having to keep making that promise. He knows what it feels like to be on the opposite end of it. Icarus had said he'd come back for him in the library and he _tried_ , but he didn't. Not before other people intervened and got in-between them. He still remembers the sounds of the officers walking in and how faraway the noise had seemed until he had looked up and saw them. Until he had seen that it _wasn't_ Icarus.

It was overwhelming dread. A lot of it. It had almost consumed him.

He waits, digging deep for the ever-growing pool of patience he knows is somewhere inside him. Icarus stares and stares, and it goes on for at least a minute before he gives up and eases off of Soran back onto the floor. It's as close to permission as he knows he's going to get.

"I'll be right back," he promises, getting to his feet. Icarus nods but he's already focused back on the floor again, knees curled up to his chest and arms held tight around the entire package of him.

He doesn't have all the time in the world, though he wishes he did.

At least the kitchen isn't a far journey. Just a few hallways and downstairs, into the next wing over. You know, before all of this he wouldn't even think the energy it took to walk that far for food would even be worth it. If you had to burn more than you were getting how could it be? Now it's just routine, him walking six miles to get a snack or anything otherwise.

There's someone else on the stairs - he hears them coming from a ways off. It has to be one of the others at this point who may or may not be in possession of his _dumb list_. Very few people at this point have the energy to stay awake otherwise.

It's not any of them, though. For a moment he doesn't recognize her at all.

It takes him longer than it should. She's coming up towards him and when he hits the top stair she actually falters, not even half a second long before she puts her raised foot back on solid ground. He saw it, though.

They've both stopped moving. If he was sensible he'd walk right past her and continue to the kitchen.

He's not sensible.

"Should I say _nice to finally meet you_ , or?" he asks slowly. That's it, poke the beast that Evander's apparently spent so long trying to keep away from him. She doesn't look like much of a beast; aging and thinning out, fair-skinned and fair-haired. She looks nothing like her kids which is perhaps why he's never thought he really fit with them perfectly either.

It explains it, honestly.

"Only if you'll forgive me for not saying it back," Kerensa answers. Oh, so that's how they're doing this? And to think he was going to be _cordial_.

She continues on what appears to be her merry way, cresting the top of the stairs so that she's only two or three feet away, watching him like a hawk. She has the beady little eyes for what.

"Trying to sneak off again, are we?"

He smiles. "Twenty-four-seven security lockdown - don't think I'm going to chance it."

"Wouldn't want to risk anything else happening to you, I suppose," she remarks. "What _did_ happen to your face?"

"What can I say, I'm clumsy."

"My son wouldn't give me a straight answer either. Is it for the best that I don't know what's going on under my own roof?"

"Oh, definitely."

When he expects her to sour at that she doesn't; quite the opposite, in fact. She almost looks, dare he say it, satisfied? Maybe she enjoys his face looking like a piece of fruit that got kicked around on a market floor.

"You look like you put up a fight."

"Always."

"You're better at that than your father was."

First Carnelia, now her. Do people just _enjoy_ dragging this man's name through the mud like he really did anything wrong, including his own wife? Objectively Soran has a lot of room to hate him, a lot of good reasons for it, but that still doesn't mean he was a beyond awful, fucked up person. The one he's looking at now is probably worse than he ever was.

The worst type of people were the one's who's deaths got drawn out, because they deserved it. If he was really, truly bad, Carnelia wouldn't have ended his life in a split second.

"Well, you'll be rid of me too, in a few days." He shrugs. "Turns out you can't fight off a lethal injection any more than you can a bullet to the head."

Unless you're Ferrox Mervaine, apparently, but whatever. He doesn't fucking count in this scenario. And considering he's already saved Soran's life once he probably doesn't have any room to rag on the guy.

"You don't seem like the type of person to accept that so easily," she observes. It's a good thing she doesn't really know him, or he wouldn't like the look she was giving him one bit. It can't scare him if he doesn't let her close enough, and he doesn't plan on it.

"It's not about accepting it. Everyone's gotta bite it sooner or later. Even Carnelia Trevall. There's no running from it."

"There is," she says. She sounds like every bit the politician herself, manipulative and convincing. "I'd say she had more of a hand in her own death than you did. The coroner's office finalized the autopsy report a few days ago - cancer. She was full of it. They think it started in her kidney and had been metastasizing out for quite some time. It was in her liver, her bones. She had months to live, if that. And instead of dying weak and sickly in her sleep she went out the way she wanted."

"You think she _wanted_ to die by us?"

"I think she wanted to die any other way than what she had been told. She ran, but she ran towards her own path. To her that was almost guaranteed a victory. She won."

It makes more sense now why she went to all of this trouble. Why she so willingly got in the middle of it towards the end even after all the others were dead. Them, all five of them, they've been fighting so hard to avoid death since the day they got out, and Carnelia Trevall was looking for it the whole time.

He knows what death feels like, the impending doom of it. There's select few people in the world he'd wish on it, and Carnelia was one of them.

He's never going to feel bad about that.

And he knows it somewhere she doesn't that Carnelia didn't win.

"If you'll excuse me," she says. "I have some last minute details to go over for Thursday's charity gala."

He nearly snorts. "Is charity gala code for a celebration of our deaths?"

"Even I'm not that cruel."

He seriously doubts that if Evander's put this much effort forth into keeping them apart. It's not for no reason. She's got something as awful in her as he does in him and they probably look almost exactly the same.

"Contrary to popular belief, the world is not spinning in orbit around the five of you," she tells him. "Your rapidly ending presence here does not have the power to disturb things that have already been in motion for months."

It's crystal clear, really. She's up there in terms of who wants him dead the most; not at the top, but trying to get there. She won't before he ends up dead. There's a chance, too, that she doesn't even hate him. He's just an obstacle that she never wanted to waste any time on. He was sent away so long ago she had probably forgot he had even existed.

And he won't, soon, so she's getting her wish.

"Soran."

Speaking of Evander.

He turns. Kerensa makes it a few steps and is forced to stop again as Evander turns the corner behind them with Icarus close on his heels. He doesn't look like he'd be walking at all right now if Evander wasn't there to tell him that rolling around on the floor right now wasn't appropriate. Icarus' eyes flick between them, a shot of nerves poured into both. Evander's go cold as steel.

"Mother," he says firmly. She leans forward to pat him on the arm.

"Sweetheart," she says. "Good to see you - it appears that the whole house is awake! For no reason, I'm sure."

"I told you—"

"I know what you told me, dear, but maybe that should have been communicated more clearly to _him_. If it had been I don't think he would have started conversing with me."

Evander looks at him. He feels a lot like a new puppy that just ripped a hole in someone's shoe.

"Apologies," he says, and skirts around the both of them. Icarus at that point had been steadily inching towards him but clearly unsure of how to get there with the two ticking time bombs smack dab in the middle of the room. He loops an arm around his waist and pulls him back a few paces. Evander really does look like he's going to explode, speaking in hushed tones that aren't hushed enough to be civil. He doesn't want to be close when one of them goes off.

"Didn't make it to the kitchen," he says, when they've finally stopped. "Sorry."

"I can see that. What was that all about?"

"Nothing that's going to help us any," he mutters. "What are you doing? Why didn't you stay put?"

"Evander came to wake us up, and then we had to come find you, obviously."

"Why?"

"They know who did it."

"What?"

"Who organized all of this," Icarus says under his breath. "They figured it out. It was Eriska Maclain. They found pages of her from like, forty years ago in the Sentinel files. And she had connections to Eleine and Andere."

"What the fuck," he says flatly. "Jesus."

"That's what I said."

"So what are we going to do?"

"I don't... I don't know if there's anything we can do. Not about her. She's in with all of the right people. We don't have enough time."

They have enough time, alright. Soran will make sure they do. Clearly not tonight, because Icarus has finally moved in at a pace that's not entirely painful and is wedged up against his side, head resting on his shoulder. Evander probably found him still sitting on the floor, face red and eyes watering enough to prove that he had just been bawling his eyes out on the floor not long ago. He can't begin to imagine how that went.

There's always time. Icarus would realize that too they way he did earlier if he wasn't in such a terrible state right now.

Thursday... the day before they're supposed to be gone. That's cutting it close.

But what if it's the only chance they have?

"Question," he murmurs, and Icarus looks up at him. "Would you happen to have any issues with killing a sixty year old woman?"

Slowly, and he waits for it, Icarus' mouth rises up into a smile. That's all he wanted. All he needed.

He finds himself grinning, too. "That's the spirit."

They both still look like that when both Evander and Kerensa finish. They're wearing identical smiles, being watched by two people who have no idea how or why they could still be smiling after all of this.

Even Soran doesn't even really know, but it doesn't matter.

You can't run from death, but it's like Kerensa said. He's not running from it. He's running towards it.

See how they try and stop him, then.

* * *

 **Tarquin Vierra, 16  
Applicant #4**

* * *

When you're like this, you learn to redefine what a proper amount of sleep means.

Look, the fact that he's getting a few hours undisturbed is practically a miracle, and he's okay with that. He's tired during the day, so what. Everyone's tired.

He doesn't know what time he's up until, what with everyone eventually ending up in the library all at once at every range of alarmed and confused that there possibly could be. When he finally crawls to bed he's out within seconds; either the pills are working and he's acclimating to them, or he's just that tired. Maybe he's getting better, too.

Not that that matters now.

He's still up at the crack of dawn, but six hours is better than no hours. It's better than the nightmares. He's not foolish enough to think that anyone else is even close to up yet, so he doesn't bother looking. Even the kitchens are stunningly empty; apparently Tycho isn't much of an early riser, either.

It's almost nice with no one around though, at least for once. There are a few things scattered around the kitchen still in warmers, a selection of others tucked away in the fridge. He can take his time this morning.

It just sort of feels like he has to, now.

He's got today, tomorrow, and then nothing, if he's supposed to die Friday morning. Nothing at all. He needs to make every second pass as slowly as possible.

Him and death feel like they have a complicated relationship. He wanted it, before. He's the one who talked into the mines with no intention of getting back out. With the fire blazing and the ceiling collapsing around him, the walls closing in, he thought there was no chance.

He doesn't know how he feels about it, now, but it feels like he should figure it out before it happens.

The only one waiting for him outside the kitchens when he finally finishes up is Nyx, who chirps up at him from the floor and trots off down the hall towards the sitting room before he can even move.

It's a good thing he took a bit too much bacon to be appropriate.

There's someone else in the sitting room when he gets there, though, and he only recognizes it as Shoah from behind simply because there's no one else to pin it on. He hasn't actually spoken to her since that first time, since he met her in the first place.

Don't get him wrong, he's considered it. He knows that it would be good for him. Every time though he would find himself chickening out, or something else would come up.

With two days left, now, he didn't think there was a point.

She takes a swig of coffee and must be able to feel eyes on her, because she turns around to find him standing there, his breakfast getting colder by the second. Really he had wondering if it was worth it to try and leave before she noticed him there, but that's not so much an option anymore.

"Good morning," she says, with a cheery little smile. "You can sit, you know."

Oh, he knows. That's not the issue here. It's about if he _should_.

He doesn't know her. People aren't really supposed to _know_ their therapists, and that's part of why it supposedly works, but he's not sure what he can tell to a stranger. How can a stranger listen to the worst parts and even begin to understand?

It would be more awkward than not though at this point to turn and run with his tail between his legs. It's been too long.

She smiles again when he sits down at the opposite end of the couch from her. Nyx jumps up on the armrest next to him and nearly gets his head into Tarquin's place before he catches him.

"You've got a friend, there," she notices. He breaks off the crispier end of his bacon and offers his hand out to let Nyx take a softer piece from between his fingers. He nearly loses the tip of one for his extended kindness.

"Yeah. He sort of follows me everywhere."

"I wonder why."

He chances a glance again, and Nyx is staring at him with his eyes even bigger than normal, first piece of bacon gone and expectantly waiting for the second.

He rips off another one, but this time throws it past the coffee table and halfway across the room. Nyx takes off without blinking.

At least that should buy him some time.

Or at least it might. Shoah is staring at him, not obviously, but he knows she is. Stares were easier before. Familiar. And nobody was staring at him for any sort of bad reason, unless his dye job had turned out a tad brighter than he anticipated or he was wearing a particularly weird costume that day. People don't stare at him for any sort of good reason now. They're concerned, or nervous, or scared. They're all of the above, sometimes.

It's nice to know that people care, but sometimes he wishes they wouldn't bother. Maybe he could get over this quicker instead of never at all.

It's hard to do that when everyone keeps reminding him.

At least Shoah doesn't look scared. Instead she looks like she's at an auction and just found him tucked away in the corner where no one else has bothered wandering just yet. It's an appraisal - is he in good enough condition to be purchased? Is he worth trying to figure out when she's only got two days to do so?

"How are you doing?" she asks finally. Nyx is already toddling his way back over after retrieving his bacon, so apparently he didn't earn as much time as he thought.

He hurriedly shoves a bite into his own mouth, both to keep it out of reach from the cat and to give himself some extra time to mull over the question.

He swallows after spending too much time chewing in the first place. "Is that a trick question?"

"Just a general one."

"I guess when you've only got two days left to live it sort of seems like one."

"And I'm sorry if anything I see seems... insensitive," she says. "I'm not in your situation. While I can't possibly begin to feel what you're feeling right now I'd at least like to try and understand it."

"So it can help you in the future?"

"It's not about the future. It's about you right now."

Because he doesn't have a future - right? Oh, God, it's not great to think of it that way, but he literally doesn't. All those things he wanted to do, the places he wanted to see. That drama school out in Bainbridge that had taken an interest in him, too. None of it matters.

"Is bad a good enough word, then?" he asks.

"If you think it is."

"I could think of a lot worse ones."

"Well, don't hold your tongue on my account. I'm sure I've heard a lot worse."

"But you've never dealt with a murderer, right?"

She looks thoughtful. "Well, if I did, they certainly didn't tell me. In Four, though, I'm sure I did. They're everywhere. My sister and I, we trained when we were younger. Nothing serious, really, at least for me. But she killed someone, once, during the trials. She was seventeen and was told to prove herself against that year's chosen volunteer and she just... reacted."

"And killed her?"

"Didn't intend to. Intention or not, though, I saw what it did to her. It was one person but it nearly destroyed her."

"What do you think thirteen will do, then?"

"Well that's up to you to decide, isn't it?" she asks. "I'm not sure there's very many examples set in that regard."

Directly? It's laughable. With that number the only people he's comparable to are serial killers or Sentinels and he didn't think that he had the capability of either of them.

It seemed so easy; it was just one blast. One match. One explosion.

And thirteen lives, just like that.

Nyx reappears on the couch and bumps up insistently against his hand. "Easy," he says, prodding him back, but only gets a meow in response.

"At least you have a friend."

"I don't think he would be if I didn't feed him."

"That's friendship for you. Give and take. You give him food, he keeps you company."

It's not such a bad trade-off. Although Tycho said Nyx tended to be a bit of a grump, and he sometimes was, that didn't lessen his company any. It was nice to have someone follow after him like they actually cared, even if it was just for the food in his hand.

"Have you spoken to any of your friends?" Shoah asks.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"They're not letting us? I think the landlines are down, or maybe they're just down for us. I don't know. But it's not like I can just go and do that. And I can't leave now, either. I'm not even sure they'd want to talk to me, not after what—"

"After what?"

"You know what I did," he reminds her.

"And it was public knowledge when they helped find you after the trial, remember? They knew then."

"Not wanting me dead and actually wanting to interact with me are totally different things."

"You're correct. But what if they want both?"

He can't do anything about it - is there something about that Shoah doesn't understand? He can't just walk out the front gate and go to Calix's after school, or go to the theater with Velia, or grab lunch with Arden. Shit doesn't work that way anymore and it's not going to ever again. And even if it did, how could he act that way? There's no going back to normalcy after this.

"You know their numbers, presumably?" she wonders, pulling her phone from her pocket. "Could I have one of them?"

"Why?" he asks, but rattles off Calix's number regardless. He feels like he's known that number longer than he's known his own. He doesn't know what it would take for him to forget it. Maybe there's nothing that would.

Shoah presents the screen to him, face up. Calix's number is lit up across the screen but she hasn't pressed call just yet.

He doesn't know if he has the nerve to.

"I don't think you're allowed to do that," he says quietly.

"Do what? Let you call someone?"

"The landlines—"

"I know," she says. "But what harm could it do? I know what you're thinking. If this all comes to fruition you've got two days left, and if that's it then I think you should be able to do what you need to do, whatever that may be. Calling a friend is the least offensive thing you could do."

"He's never awake this early."

"Then leave him a message. Hold onto the phone until tomorrow night - it's my work contact anyway, and this is currently my work, so no one else should be ringing."

"And what if he doesn't call back?"

She shrugs. "Then he doesn't. You can't change that. But at least you can say you tried."

He's going to cry again, whether Calix answers or not. He can feel it coming in the burning of his eyes, the rapidly forming lump in his throat. It might be the closest thing he's come to a good cry in a very long of time no matter the outcome. Because like Shoah said - at least he'll have tried.

He can do no more.

He presses call and puts the phone to his ear, forcing himself to take a few deep breaths. He drops his plate on the coffee table and Nyx crawls into his lap, instead, as if offering some silent form of comfort. The phone rings, and rings, and rings. Just like he predicted. Calix was never the early riser of the bunch. If you could get him out of bed before noon on a weekend it was considered a victory.

The voicemail chimes. Some of the terror in his veins seeps away, but not all of it. What is he supposed to say? Is there anything that's good?

Not really. And he has nothing to lose anyway.

It's silent, he realizes. He has to say something. Anything.

"Calix," he says, voice shaking. "Hey."

* * *

Another random three POV because it was getting so long already and so close to the end I was just determined to finish. Sue me.

Until next time.


	59. Supernova

LVI: The Capitol - Rose Point Estate.

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16**  
 **Applicant #17**

* * *

It's a lot to process.

Wednesday was just talking. So much of it. So many words and so many different people all at once. Everyone had someone worth saying and a lot of it didn't really matter at all, she had realized. Maybe no one else did, but she was good at figuring out what was substantial enough and what wasn't.

The truth of the matter was, there wasn't any escaping a lethal injection. Their truths were never good ones.

And yet all day it still looked like there was enough going on to figure it out. Phone calls and paperwork, endless amount of research from all ends.

All that had happened was Wednesday ended. They went to sleep, woke up, Thursday.

Twenty-four hours. If that.

Maybe it was more than that; it was still the afternoon. They were all congregated in one single bedroom by choice for once, with no imminent threat or danger or upset. Just because. It was nice to have the company when she wasn't sure how much of it she would have tomorrow.

She drags her blanket back up her shoulders and almost nearly all the way over her head. Maybe there's no use in hiding in her last twenty-four or so hours, but oh well. She'll do what she likes.

Not everything, though.

Soran told her. He told all of them. An idea can be a lot of things but she doesn't know if it can be what all of them want, not with such short notice.

They don't have that long, either. Not really. Hour by hour people will trickle out of this place until there's almost no one left, save for the staff and the guards left outside to keep an eye on them. They found an address for the gala, some upscale hall just outside of downtown. She's seen it, but only from afar. It's bigger than any other building on the block.

They have a guest list too. Who knows how accurate it is, how old.

But the right people are on it.

Or are they the wrong ones?

It depends on how this night goes, she guesses.

Ria can't help but wonder how much Kerensa knows about all of this. She seems cruel, maybe, but not downright evil. Like a lot of people in this country she's just looking for justice - is that so wrong? It doesn't mean it's right, either, but picking a side doesn't necessarily mean anyone's bad. Besides, she chose a side, and that side involved surviving the valley. Does she have any room to judge?

There's a knock on the door and Pandora pokes her head in. She looks... nicer than usual, if that's not being too harsh. She's just looked particularly haggard lately; with the stress and the pregnancy and _them_ it doesn't come as much of a surprise. With a little bit of make-up and a fancy dress apparently anyone can hide just exactly what they're feeling.

"Oh, you're all here," she says slowly. She looks sad. More sad than anything Ria's equipped to handle and she can't _imagine w_ hy. It's not like all five of them are about to die or anything.

"I'll be leaving soon," she continues. "Crynn will be out back if you guys need anything. We'll be back before midnight, at the latest."

"Are you going because you want to, or because your mother is forcing you?" Soran asks. He rolls over on the bed to look at her after having previously hidden his terribly bruised face in the blankets for the last half hour or so. She almost forgot about it all.

"I'd be here if I could. Especially before tomorrow."

"Right."

She takes a deep breath. "Like I said, Crynn will be here. And if not, you can call me."

Tarquin nods and shoves the phone he had been fiddling with back into his pocket as if someone's about to take it away. She thinks that someone should, maybe. It's been over a day and his friend still hasn't called back; holding onto it and hoping can't be good for his mental state. But then again, what does it really matter? His mental state can be at a breaking point and it won't have an impact on what happens tomorrow.

Pandora's gone silent, but when Ria turns to the door she's still lingering there, staring. It's not just them as a collective in that moment. It becomes a game of individuals, where she looks at each and every one of them for longer than what might be considered appropriate. Ria resists the urge to crawl under the chair and hide from her gaze.

She doesn't, though. When Pandora shifts her eyes it's back to them as a group, a whole, and then she clicks the door shut quietly as she leaves.

And it felt, though Ria loathes to admit it, as if she was looking at them for the last time. Properly, anyway. This is the last time she's going to get them like this, all five together and not about to step into death. She was taking it all in because she doesn't think she's going to get the chance anymore.

Ria knows, and she hopes the others do too, that they don't deserve her.

They've lost so much. More than what anyone deserves to lose, no matter what they did before it. Things have happened since then that she wouldn't wish on her worst enemy, not even the people getting them killed now. No one deserves that level of pain. There are people here though that have done nothing shy of the most, every waking minute. People like Pandora and Evander who have been there since the beginning, people like Tycho who have just been kind even when others wouldn't have been.

At least when she dies, and she's admitted that she is now, she'll go knowing that it wasn't all bad. That there is good out there somewhere.

Maybe they didn't experience the amount they should have, the amount they deserved. But at least they got something.

"So," Emmi asks, after several minutes have passed. Ria was just getting used to the silence again. "When are we leaving?"

"We said we wouldn't make it obviously quick," Icarus reminds her. "Besides, we still have to figure out something to do about _this_."

He gestures vaguely, she figures, to what he's wearing. She can't really see him that well, but she knows he can't look _that_ bad. He'd never let himself. Sure, maybe showing up to a gala of all things wearing every-day civilian clothes isn't their greatest move, but it might be funny. If not a bit obvious.

"Well, I'm sorry they didn't make us closets full of formal outfits here," Emmi says. "I'm sure you'll survive. It's not like other options are exactly falling at our feet."

"But—"

"I was thinking about that, actually," Tarquin interrupts. "About the outfits."

"Oh, please," Icarus begs. "I will be forever in your debt."

Soran shuffles over to kick him and nearly knocks him off the bed. Tarquin's got the phone out again and appears to actually be doing something with it, scrolling away, but he smiles.

"The theater always posts a bulletin for the week," he says. "A schedule, really. For rehearsals and meetings and stuff."

"Okay?" Emmi says.

"And there's nothing scheduled for today."

"Okay," she says, even slower.

"So there's no one there."

" _Yes,"_ Icarus says. Soran kicks him again. Tarquin turns the phone around - she's the only one really close enough to see it, and with some squinting she can see exactly what he's mentioned. The mentioned Thursday, while surrounded by days completely filled with other dozens of other bullets, is completely empty. It almost feels too good to be true.

That they deserve though, don't they? They certainly haven't been cut any other breaks.

"So what, you want us to break into your theater?" Emmi asks.

"I mean, the back door is usually unlocked, so it wouldn't really be breaking in. Besides, aren't we already crashing a charity gala? How is that any worse?"

"I, for one, totally agree," Soran announces.

"You agreed the second someone told you we were breaking into somewhere," Icarus says. That dissolves into a scuffle that she doesn't even begin to try and make sense of. She can barely tell who's who in that. Soran eventually slides out of it and off the bed entirely onto the floor, escaping Icarus' grasp at a speed that almost seems embarrassing.

"Alright, I'm gonna go get Crynn."

"Already?"

"Well, apparently we're having a fashion show before we leave for the gala, so I think we should. What else are we going to do? Who knows how long it's going to take us to get out of here without being noticed. Even with Crynn helping it could take us a few hours."

Yeah, this whole getting out of the estate thing really hasn't been thought through. They've planned out everything beyond it. They just need to get out.

It doesn't seem like they have very good odds, but Ria believes in them.

At the most Soran's right, and it takes them a few hours to sneak away. That puts them past dinner. They head to the theater and spend a while there, so long as they have the time. The sun will be going down by them.

The night almost seems... fitting, for a plan like this.

Ria, or at least the old version, wouldn't like this one bit. The version where she thought of herself as weak and fragile would run away from it, would never agree to it. Even now her stomach is still churning at how all of this could go wrong, but it already has. How much more wrong can death get?

This is their last few hours. Their last of everything.

She never thought he was the type, but it seems fitting now.

Maybe it's time to finally go out with a bang.

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17  
Applicant #13**

* * *

Crynn, she suspects, would lock all five of them up in the cabin if he had such a privilege.

It wouldn't work though. One of them, her or Soran, would crawl out a window while the other was being watched. He couldn't keep tabs on all of them, after all.

So it was a damn good thing he wasn't even going to try.

It's probably insensitive but she's not sure how a guy who literally can't talk is so good at distracting people. Maybe people feel more obligated to pay attention to him because of it? There's no one guarding the halls but the place is still littered with them regardless; they're surrounding the entire perimeter and walking about through the gardens and the front lawn all the way to the gate. All they really need is a few seconds or so but alone it seems impossible.

That's why he's here, though.

The garage and it's fleet of cars is empty enough; no one would except them to be this out there. Crynn's checking the security cameras lining the far wall, though, and there's at least three guards between the driveway outside the door and the gate that leads out to the side road connected to the property. It would still be avoiding the majority of them, but not all apparently.

Crynn holds a hand up as he takes the lead ahead of them, so Emmi stays put around the corner and out of sight as he presses a button and the garage door on the left begins to slide open. Hidden away like this she has no idea what's going on, but she can see the two of them conversing, or at least attempting to, in the reflection of the security camera. The guard is looking more and more perplexed by the second at the flurry of hand motions being presented to him.

Whatever is eventually communicated works, though. She's not sure how. The guard at the door shouts for the one further down the drive, who comes into frame soon enough, approaching the house once again.

"We're never gonna know what just happened there, are we?" Icarus asks.

"Considering I understood about every sixth word, firm no," Soran responds. Considering his previous track record with learning things, Emmi thinks that's pretty good for him.

Crynn returns a few minutes later, and by the time he does both the guard outside the door and the one further down the drive have mysteriously vanished as if they were never even around in the first. Only the one at the gate is still there, a small pinprick in the distance. Whoever they are, they're not doing much of anything at all.

You know what, Emmi's not even going to question that.

Upon his return he tosses a pair of keys at her, and she quickly flings them back at Soran. Yes, she'd rather trust someone who may or may not still have a mild concussion to drive over her. Just because she could manage it out in the middle of nowhere doesn't mean she wants to risk it now when everyone might be watching.

She'll avoid that, thank you very much.

The car that responds to the keys is much more conspicuous than she would have bet on. It's a mammoth of a thing; you could probably shove several families in it and still lounge about comfortably.

"Are we seriously good?" Soran asks. "What about—"

Crynn waves forward, as if to tell them to go. Soran jams the keys in the ignition but goes no further. Emmi buckles herself into the passenger seat because she really feels like she needs to. It's a nice form of security, and she remembers all too well what happened with Soran driving out in the valley. His second time since then isn't something she trusts just yet.

She does trust it more than herself, though.

"Seriously?" Soran repeats, eyeing the guard down the road. He's not standing very close to it, though. He's standing closer to the opening mechanism off to the side. When she leans back into the seat she's nearly hidden from view, and the windows are so black she almost can't see out of them.

If he doesn't know it's them, and it doesn't look that way, he might not even bother to look.

She really doesn't want to know what Crynn did.

Crynn somehow manages to look even more sad than Pandora did earlier as he waves them off again. Worried, too. If he was unsure of what would happen at the end of the drive he wouldn't send them down there alone, that she's sure of. He wouldn't risk them that way because he knows what that's like.

Emmi feels like an awful person for leaving him there, for a reason she doesn't even know. They pull out of the garage and onto the drive, all five of them trying not to cower into their seats and the floor below them as they get closer and closer to the side gate. The guard doesn't even look up at their approach. What he does to is lean in to type some sort of code into the pad lining the fence before they even stop in front of him. Not once does he take a proper look at them.

The gate starts to split in two and slide open right before her eyes. Her chest is so tight that she has to remind herself to breathe.

"Did that seriously just work?" Tarquin murmurs, and she shushes him. It's not like the guard could hear them, but it feels like he can.

"Where am I going again?" Soran asks.

"Left out of here, and then head downtown."

"Because I know how to get there."

"I'll tell you, just hurry up and get out of here," Emmi insists. _Before this dumbass decides to actually look at us_.

He looks mighty preoccupied into talking to whoever's communicating with him through the little tucked away earpiece, so small she almost didn't notice it. What could be so important? He's going to find out later when his job's on the line for letting them go in the first place.

Soran pulls through the gates without issue and turns left onto the main road. The gate begins to close behind them, inch by inch.

Nothing happens.

The air in the car is already thick, stale. As if not one of them was breathing.

She doesn't think she was.

"That really worked?" Ria asks hesitantly, twisting in her seat to gaze back at the Estate and the gate, now firmly closed behind them. The garage is closed too. No one is coming streaming out onto the grass shouting up a storm after them. It really did. She would have never taken Crynn as the devious type, but apparently everyone has a side that the public isn't privy to. It came in handy eventually, so what can she really say about it?

Emmi leans back in her seat and finally allows herself to take a real breath. Everyone else does the same.

It feels like freedom, even though it really isn't. After so long trapped in the Estate with nowhere else to properly go except the courthouse, it's nice to be out with no one and nothing telling them what to do.

And someone's not missing this time, so it's even better.

It's not proper freedom though. There's no way the five of them would make it past any of the checkpoints out of the city. It was a length process nine years ago back when things were all nice and separated, and now that people from every place in the country are teeming about it's even worse. They have no identification. Their faces are plastered everywhere. Someone would know the second they even tried.

It _would_ be nice to try, but not worth it.

While it was tempting to run that wasn't the goal they had in mind when coming up with this. It was their last shot. It felt like a last hurrah too, but what they were going to do probably shouldn't be called that.

"That way, and then left," she instructs. With every passing second they get closer to what they're about to do, and she doesn't find she's afraid at all.

She's dying soon, after all.

What could possibly scare her now?

* * *

 **Tarquin Vierra, 16  
Applicant #4**

* * *

Never in his life has he wanted to run away at the sight of something so familiar.

That's what seeing the theater does, though. He instructs them around the block and into the alley behind the building amidst the dingy puddles and heaps of trash bags. That's where the rarely used back door and it's crumbling steps are. The hopefully still-unlocked door.

They never locked it when he was here, but times have changed.

The door pushes in under his hand though it takes him a long minute to ascend the stairs at all. Everyone else hangs back a minimum of ten feet away, waiting for him to step inside. The main hallway is as dark as always when the last person leaves for the night and closes up shop. Even though he can barely see he knows where every individual room is, every nook and cranny. Every place feels like an old friend, the only ones he really has right now. The weight of the phone in his pocket is a constant reminder of that.

Ria creeps silently up to his side and peers under his arm. "All good?"

"Yeah. I just have to go get the keys."

She nods. He ducks inside and flips the lights on, leaving everyone else to file inside behind him as he makes a beeline for the back office. Everything looks the exact same, carefully disorganized. Whoever's in here though always knows where everything is, can answer a question without blinking. This type of chaos is the best one.

He opens the second drawer from the bottom and pulls the ring of keys out. The thing about organized chaos though is that if he doesn't put them back in their exact place someone is bound to notice.

Who knows what they'd think. Would they ever guess this?

The main door slams shut and he winces despite himself as the noise echoes all throughout the back of the house and out into the auditorium. If there _was_ anyone still lurking about, they certainly know they're not alone now.

"You're telling me they lock the rooms _inside_ the theater but not the theater itself?" Emmi asks, poking her head through the door. "Or, you know, the office."

"Then someone would be tasked with looking after an office key."

"No one responsible enough?"

"Nope."

They suggested that, once. Arden said he should look after it.

It was a firm _no_ on his end.

He leads all four of them down the hall and through the green room, past the dressing rooms even, and into the basement. He makes sure to flick on every light as he goes even if it may seem excessive on his end. The dark isn't good anymore.

He's unlocked the costume room down here a million times over but it's still something else to see it when he flicks the lights on. The oldest stuff is packed away in boxes and the ones perhaps beyond repair tucked away even further than that, but there are still racks upon racks stretching out down the rows full of clothes. There's a rolling rack next to the door that he very gently pushes to the side; that must be the stuff they're using right now. He's not going to touch it.

"Okay, I'll see you guys in two days, apparently," Emmi says, snorting. She picks one of the rows and disappears into it.

"That's probably a good idea," he says, pointing after her. "Stick to the right. That's where the most... normal stuff will be. Normal for a gala, anyway."

"So dressing like a dead Shakespeare character isn't gala appropriate?" Ria asks. She looks up at him and smiles.

"Well, there go my plans for the night," Soran deadpans, but he's quickly dragged off down the row opposite Emmi's by Icarus, and his voice is lost in the middle of it quite quickly.

He waits until they're all lost in the sea of outfits to pick his own room. He could practically find anything in here if you gave him a description and a brief minute to track it down; he's seen everything in here over the years, seen the people who have worn each and every one. He knows what will look good and what won't, what will fit the people he has now. They don't have the hours Tarquin wishes they did to pick and choose.

He'll worry about himself last. Somewhere in here there's a whole chunk of outfits he's worn before; it'll take him all of a minute and a half to track one down that's appropriate and wiggle his way into it.

Every few feet he makes sure to pick something else up, and by the time he's made it the end of the impossibly long row he has at least one thing for everyone stuck into the crook of his arm.

On cue, Ria pokes her head through the opposite rack, looking more confused than he's ever seen her.

It's a cry for help.

He searches through the pile and pulls out a few things he found with her in mind. Her eyes light up, even if she looks just as perplexed as before.

"I can't even remember the last time I wore a dress," she says under her breath, but takes the armful offered to her regardless.

"Never?"

"Maybe."

First time for everything. He points her back to the front of the room and the makeshift dressing room tucked into the corner and then continues on his merry way down the next aisle. No one else is even close, so he begins to pitch things across the room at each of them individually. A pair of shoes there, a shirt there, a dress with an oddly purple-pink hue that he hasn't seen in almost two years that he tosses to Emmi without a moment's hesitation. It's the little things like that.

Finally he finds what has to be the most normal outfit he's probably ever worn in this place. It's still not just a typical black suit, but it's close enough.

It'll fit for what they're about to do.

He's halfway through the buttons on his new shirt when the phone starts to ring.

His brain short-circuits, first. His first thought is that someone's found them out and knows this is the only point of contact.

And then something clicks.

He rummages in his pocket for the phone, drops it, and then scrambles after it across the floor, scooping it up. He drops the bundle of clothing he had been collecting in the process. Calix's number is flashing across the screen and that's all that matters; nothing else ever could.

He presses answer and holds the phone up to his ear, but hears nothing at all.

He isn't saying anything either. Nothing is coming to mind. His breath is caught in his throat and he's not sure anything would come out anyway.

Everyone else has gone silent too. Ria practically trips out of the dressing room in her haste to get out, blue dress and all. He'd tell her she looks nice if he could talk at all.

"Tarquin?" Calix asks, and he forces back that familiar feeling of tears rapidly approaching. He can't cry now. He has no time to.

"Yeah," he answers, voice hardly above a whisper. At least something came out at all.

"Oh my God, dude, I thought someone was fucking with me, okay, and I didn't even check my voicemails because it was an unknown number, you know, and you also know I never answer those, but you still—"

"I just wanted to hear one of your voices," he explains.

"No one else is here with me."

"That's fine. You're good enough."

"Gee, thanks," Calix says, but his voice is filled with a laugh. "Are you... are you okay, dude? What's up?"

"Not the usual."

"Didn't think so. When they called me and told me they couldn't find you I sorta freaked out, you know. But they found you."

"Thanks to you."

"Anyone could've looked at your damn house," Calix says. "Are you okay, though? Like really?"

"I'm not," he says thickly. "I'm not, but I've been trying. I don't have much longer to do that, though, and I don't have long before I have to go either—"

"Go? Go where?"

"I'm at the theater," he answers, slightly hysterical with it all. He's usually here with Calix of all people, or Arden or Velia, or a gaggle of other people that are all aiming for the same exact thing. He's usually getting repeatedly smacked with a foam sword or getting lost in a sea of lines that he's trying to learn along with everyone else.

"What? Why? I can come there right now."

"You can't. If you come here I won't leave, and we have to go. We're about to do something really, really stupid, I think."

"We? Are the others there with you?"

"Yeah."

"Are they... good? You know what I mean."

"Yeah," he repeats.

"But not replacing us, right?"

He laughs. "No, never. You know no one could."

"Just checking."

He's not crying. That's a good thing too, right? For once even though he could be he's managed to hold the feeling at bay in order to feel happy about something for once, in order to properly enjoy the sound of his friend's voice and the familiarity of it without sobbing. It would be hard to absorb it this way if he could barely even hear it, and he's been sobbing pretty loud as of late.

"Calix," he says. "After tomorrow you're probably going to hear a lot of things, about us and about me. I just want you to promise me—"

"I don't believe any of it."

"But it's true," he says. "What I did, that's all true."

"But what's _not_ true is what they're calling you," Calix responds. "You're not heartless, or a monster, or cruel. You're not any of those things and nothing's going to make that true. I don't care how long they try - I'm not going to believe that. Nothing's changed."

He takes a deep breath. "A lot's changed," he says quietly.

"I still love you, though. You know that."

He does know that. He always has.

If only that changed anything.

"Don't forget any of this," he insists. "I know people will. That's what they do when awful things happen. Just remember all of it - me, and everything that happened. Please."

"I will. I promise."

A promise is worth even more than he thought coming from someone he knows will keep it. There aren't many people these days like that anymore.

There are some people that will forget. There are some people, like Calix, who probably couldn't even if they tried. Those are the people he's going to cling to in his last moments - the good ones. Maybe they truly are few and far between but they're good, and he's found them. It's not impossible. He can say he had them, and no one can take that way.

They can take everything else, but not that.

* * *

 **Eriska Maclain, 60  
Member of the New Haven Federation**

* * *

It's all just a bit of bad timing.

Nothing revolving around her, thankfully enough. Things do often enough but she hasn't been subjected to something truly terrible in say, fourteen years or so. Maybe even thirteen. The year immediately following the bombs wasn't the most pleasant one.

Reintegrating proved to be the most difficult thing of all. It wasn't the technicalities behind it; a new name and a place to live and a job to do were the easiest parts, in fact. It was remembering how to be proper person. Most Sentinels were monsters, she knew, but once upon a time they had been human. When one spent thirty-odd years living in a shell of that it was difficult to get back.

She could still remember the look on Nanami and Keir's faces when they were outside for the first time in months. It was childlike.

It had burned out, of course. Things like stars always did.

They could have been good, the two of them. Really, properly good had they had a few years to be trained and run through the motions like she had. By the time she had whipped them into shape after the fact they hadn't even wanted to change their names. They weren't strong enough. Of course that was what made them cling to her all the more. That, and their dead families.

It was difficult, as she said, to go back. It was even harder when you had nothing to go back _to_.

She wouldn't pry because she couldn't afford to, but there was no telling what had actually happened to Andere. She most likely was never going to find out, either. There was no stopping him once he got something stuck in his mind, no matter how much she advised him against it.

He had gone with intent, she knows, and he had never came back. Now one of those five was covered in bruises all over again.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out, is all.

At least for his sake she hopes it was quick.

Not that he deserved quick.

An entire gaggle of people pass her on the ballroom floor on their way to the bar behind her, chattering up a storm. She steps aside to let them pass, further letting the crowd swallow her up. It's best to do that in moments like this.

At the tail end of the group is Pandora, otherwise silent and uninvolved. Last time Eriska saw her she was on the second floor wrap-around with her mother, talking as if they were still getting along. She was making a secret of it; Evander wasn't. They were curiously funny little people, them and their attempts at lying.

She waits a few moments until Pandora gets to the bar and finishes up her brief communication with the bartender before following her over.

People are difficult things to figure out, but she thinks she's got this one.

"It's all just a bit of bad timing, isn't it?" she says aloud. Pandora turns around drink in hand and a smile on her face, though it's strained. She can't blame her on that front.

"It always is with my mother. That's sort of her thing, as you know."

"So I do. You don't believe it's out of malicious intent, though. Do you?"

Pandora shrugs. "It's been planned for months now. There's just such a thing as postponing, you know? At least for a week or so."

"You think this will have blown over by then?"

Her smile turns grim. "Do you think it ever will?"

The Capitol forgot twenty-three names and faces almost every year. It's different when it's their own flesh and blood, though. When it's twenty-four instead of twenty-three. They always had a victor to use, to make people forget the trauma of losing the others. They won't have such a luxury after tomorrow.

"I think if my mother could she'd have loaded up the needles already," Pandora says. "It would certainly have made tonight less awkward."

Why _would_ anyone willingly talk to Pandora Quinn when she's about to lose the five children she fought so hard to protect. Evander might as well be hiding away for how much she's seen him tonight.

"You tried," she responds. "That's all you could've done."

"It wasn't good enough, though."

"It rarely is."

She's learn that herself and taught it, year after year. You have to pick and choose what you fight for, because not all battles are winnable. Not all of them are worth winning

Eriska leans around her and into the bar, beckoning the bartender over. He gets to work on her next glass, and in the meantime Pandora disappears from her side and off into the crowd before Eriska can tell her not to, nothing more than a glass of water in her hand. The Capitol she got what was always coming to them, for doing what they did. For ruining so many lives. Pandora's a good person, though. Eriska hasn't dealt with many of those types before.

She was one of the few that didn't deserve it.

She always wanted kids, way back when. When she thought there was still a chance. She would have hoped that a daughter of hers would have ended up like Pandora did. Good to the core.

By the time she ends up with another drink the crowd is rippling, a murmur going up over the people closest to her all the way from the main door. She's not tall enough to see so she waits, patiently, until the stream of people begin to navigate back and forth, some away.

She catches sight of the first of them only a few seconds later, flitting in and out at the edge of the crowd. One, and then two. Two rapidly turns into all five.

And someone, it would appear, has greatly messed up.

Halfway through the crowd Eleine turns to look at her, a single eyebrow raised. She shakes her head. There's no use, even less of a is already in motion after all; there's nothing left she has to do.

It wasn't according to the original plan, but this was the one she got.

And she can live with that.

* * *

I was going to write the whole almost done sappy note thing now, but I'm already late as is so instead you get this pointless one.

Until next time.


	60. Good To The Core

LVII: The Capitol - Aureole Exhibition Hall and Event Center.

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17  
Applicant #10**

* * *

It's a good thing they had gotten used to the stares.

 _Boy_ were they getting them now. Everyone's eyes were bulging out of their heads as if the worst person in existence had just walked into the room, which he thought was a little harsh. They weren't that bad.

Were they?

There was no sign of Pandora or Evander, but they would know of the imminent arrival eventually. He could imagine Kerensa was about ready to find the first one of them she could in the crowd and put them on the floor right then and there. It was happening tomorrow anyway, so he couldn't see anyone doing anything about it. Not with her position in things.

"Do we even know this is really a charity thing?" he asks and Emmi snorts. He hasn't seen hide nor hair of anything actually indicating it was; weren't they typically more obvious about that kind of shit, especially here? The Capitol needed all the good looks it could get.

"That would be implying that anything she does is out of the goodness of her own heart," Soran points out. Alright, touché. It's not like he's ever spoken to her himself but the look in her eyes two nights ago was bad enough. She got joy out of beating them down even when they were already an inch from the ground, he could tell. And maybe he was an awful person, but he wasn't that bad.

Again - _hopefully_.

"Alright, everyone scatter," Emmi says. "Stay lowkey, keep your eyes peeled. I'm gonna start looking."

She splits off easy as pie and disappears into the crowd without so much of a blink. Tarquin gives one look to the man passing by them with a tray of food and starts to follow him, much to the man's dismay. Ria is quick to follow.

Okay, so that split was easier than expected. It almost even looked sort of natural; people aren't staring at them even more than they already were, and it looks like it's harder for them to do so with increasingly smaller numbers. Maybe they feel awkward about putting so much attention on only two people.

It's more likely that ever present _we've both killed people outside of the valley_ aura going on. Other people must be able to feel it too.

"You seen either of them yet?" he asks, snatching up a flute of champagne from a passing woman, who gives him a look as if he's about to smash her over the head with it.

It's tempting.

"Nope."

It feels like they scattered the same way, both of them. It's like they know.

They couldn't possibly, but it feels that way.

Evander is the first person he recognizes to catch sight of them, and he feigns surprise for a very long drawn-out moment. He's no A-List actor, but it'll do. No one's really looking at him to be able to tell the difference anyway.

"Go talk to him," he instructs Soran. "Make it look believable for a few minutes until Emmi finds something, and then I'll come get you."

And Soran listens, miraculously, without so much as a complaint in response. What a backwards world they live in now.

For the next few minutes, once he's left alone, he lets himself drift aimlessly through the crowd. It's nice to do something without a total, all-consuming purpose behind it for once, even if he knows there will be eventually. He's just wandering about until he has a reason not to, and he's looking for that reason. Tarquin and Ria have disappeared for good. Soran's still off in the corner talking to Evander, and whatever they're discussing actually looks more than halfway real. There's still no sign of Pandora, but he hasn't spotted Kerensa either, so maybe that's for the best.

Emmi, it turns out, comes easier than expected. She's not hard to spot in the first place and even less so now. Up on the second floor she looks down at him, gives him a vague but subtle hand gesture, and then heads off down the hall.

Alright, show-time.

He strides off into the corner, pushing his way through the fringes of the crowd, and drops his empty champagne glass on the edge of the bar before he snatches Soran around the elbow.

"Hello," he says. "Goodbye."

Before he can get any further Evander grabs his other arm, so that Soran is caught between the two of them as if unfortunately stuck in the middle during tug of war. Icarus can't see his face but can't imagine he's pleased at the development.

"Be careful," Evander insists.

"Always am," Soran says with a smile, tugging his arm free from Evander's grip. Icarus pulls him away and to the opposite side of the room before he can do anything else to make it worse.

"She got one?" Soran continues. He keeps quiet, avoiding the few stares they get as he pulls Soran up the stairs after him and onto the second floor. Emmi's gone, but that's a good sign. It's all going according to the plan.

"She has to," he answers, once they've pulled away from all the people. Emmi wouldn't signal for him otherwise. They've thought this through even more than they normally would have to make sure that nothing could possibly go wrong. It still could; he knows that. When things can they usually do.

"You gotta go," Soran says. "Go meet her before something happens."

"Not yet."

There's no one in sight. If someone has gone this way then they need to make sure whoever it is hasn't left. What if they doubled back as soon as Emmi took off? Dealing with Sentinels means they never actually _know_ what they're dealing with, and he's not leaving Soran alone until he has an idea. That wasn't part of this. He's not leaving.

The hallway is empty, but around the next corner he can hear someone talking, a hushed tone. Hiding seems smart, so that's not what he does.

There's nothing even mildly intelligent about any of this.

He rounds the corner still tugging Soran after him, and he stands there for a long moment with Eleine at the next junction before she even notices them at all. When she does she goes abruptly still and apparently very rudely hangs up on whoever she had been speaking to as if they didn't matter at all, pocketing the phone inside her jacket.

Icarus can't exactly tell what she's feeling, and he can't blame the distance. She's not inscrutable. No one truly is. She's not as well trained as she could be either, not even close. She hasn't learned all the tricks of the trade.

If he had to guess, she almost looks afraid. It's of what that he can't pinpoint.

Is she really scared of _them_?

"What you do to him?" she asks, just loud enough that they can hear. No one else is around to hear the echo.

And maybe that's what's getting to her.

"I mean, if you want to find out, we can do that," Soran says. "I can kill you the same way I killed him."

Icarus never thought he would have to be grateful for the absence of a fire poker in his entire, unfortunately rather short life, but he is. There's going to be a mess tonight, that he's sure of, but nothing on that level.

He hopes, anyway.

Ever since they appeared Eleine has been steadily inching backwards, but he lets her. They've got a lot of time. Not all of it in the world, but he knows where this is going. She, unfortunately for her, doesn't. She might be running instead of inching away if she did. She reaches the next corner unscathed and turns it, keeping an eye on them all the way as she rounds it and vanishes. He knows he doesn't have to, but he still feels the urge to take off after her.

"You gotta go," Soran tells him again. For this to actually work he has to, you know, do his part in it. That part mostly involves not leaving Emmi alone during all of this, which indirectly means leaving Soran alone, even for a moment while he follows her. It's no wonder he doesn't fucking like any of this one bit.

"I know, I know. Fuck. Okay."

He's still holding onto his hand, which is sort of a problem. If he could let go any second now that would be helpful. He thought he wasn't scared, but maybe it's not this that's scaring him. Maybe it's what comes after.

He knows what's coming.

He still forces himself to let go. "Just— fuck, just be careful okay? I'm serious. For the sake of my own fucking sanity, please be careful."

Soran grabs his arm, and for once he's not loathe to admit that it makes him feel ten times better. " _You_ be careful, idiot," he says, and then drags him back to kiss him.

And he hates it. He hates how fucking much he doesn't hate it and how easy it would be to just stay here forever and let things run their course, but they can't do that. Maybe he really is awful if that's what he wants. It's like he said earlier - the whole world could burn for them to live through this and he really wouldn't care at all, not anymore.

"Go," Soran says, pulling back. "Don't fuck up our plan."

He's smiling like he knows what tomorrow's going to look like, and he doesn't. And he steps away, too, which means Icarus has no choice but to back up himself and leave. He can't be the reason this doesn't work.

It's not just tonight. It's all of it.

Soran's still smiling when he rounds the corner after her; Icarus can safely say he's not, but at least something settles in his stomach when he finally loses sight of him. _This_ is why they're doing this, because he's going to have it until the bitter fucking end. He's going to have his way no matter who likes it, and he knows thousands of people don't.

They're not what matter. They never have. What matters is what's not with him, what just left him.

And he's going to get that back.

Fuck what the ending says.

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17  
Applicant #13**

* * *

Something in her wants to lock the doors.

She quite literally can't though. It's not an option. There's the back door, the one she came through and the one that should be opening any minute now, and the one ten feet in front of her. It's the last room in this wing, the last door leading to the emergency exit that she came through in the first place.

And well, locking them would sort of defeat the purpose.

Waiting is bad, though. She's never been the pinnacle of patience, but every thirty seconds or so she's wondering what could have happened instead of what's supposed to.

It's a whole multitude of bad things that end up coming to mind. You can say they're not dangerous all they like, but that's not the truth.

They survived. Emmi knows how dangerous that is.

The door opens behind her and she jumps, clutching the gun tighter. Icarus slips in and closes the door behind him, flipping the lock up.

"You sure about that?" he asks, eyeing it. "We're locking ourselves in here with her."

"Or the opposite."

"Do you really believe that?"

Emmi's not personally a huge fan of imagining this turning into an all out fight, so she's choosing to believe that Eleine, and Eriska for that matter, aren't armed to the teeth. The whole point of this is that she gets to die believing she did something on her own terms. She's not letting one of them get her first.

Icarus is still staring at her, but she doesn't have the words to articulate that aloud.

"Is everyone okay, you think?" she asks instead.

"As long as she hasn't turned back, they should be. There's nowhere else for her to go if Soran keeps after her. Tarquin and Ria should be fine out there until we get back. Besides, Pandora and Evander are both out there too keeping an eye on things."

It would be easier for her mentally if they were all together, if there was nothing to worry about except for what was about to happen in this room.

Eriska is still out there, though, and it would take all of two seconds for her to slip out and disappear if no one's watching her.

Someone has to do that, and someone has to do this.

When it's her faced with Eleine, it didn't seem like much of a choice.

She barely has time to swing herself to the left of the door, away from the direct line of sight, as she hears the footsteps pattering down the hall outside. The door swings in and she comes face to face with Eleine, although she lasers in on Icarus first, still standing closer to the second door.

Her few steps inside clearly come at a rush, her feet moving quicker to take her away faster. It doesn't give her enough time to backpedal with Soran nearly on her heels.

He slams the door behind her and puts himself between them. If she's getting out, she's going through one of them.

The window on the far wall could be an option, too, but she doesn't think Sentinels are immune to heights. Even if she happened to survive she wouldn't be getting anywhere fast.

Emmi wouldn't let her, either.

"Nice plan," Eleine says. "How long have you been planning _this_?"

"Only a few days," she answers. "Since, y'know, Andere broke in and you used it the next day to get us killed."

"To be fair, that's what the President always wanted."

"But he doesn't know what you are."

Eleine raises an eyebrow. "Do you think I'd be here right now if he did?"

There are too many secrets to be permanently kept in a place like this. There are too many people working against that. It should make her feel better that the President doesn't know about any of this, but he still wants them dead and always did. He didn't care who he had to use to make that happen.

To him, Eleine and Andere just had to say the words. Do a job that was never really theirs.

"You're pretty good at it, killing people," Eleine continues. "You've killed more people than I have."

"That's how you're going to play this?"

"It wasn't my idea. I don't take the fall for it."

"Participating is just as bad," Icarus points out. "You didn't even hate the Capitol that badly and you went along with it anyway - you still are. All because she wanted you to?"

"So you know about her?" Eleine asks. "She had her whole life stolen. Wouldn't you do the same thing if yours was? Take revenge on the people who stole it?"

"What do you call what's happening to us, then?" she wonders. "Was ours not stolen too? You think the solution to a life getting stolen is to do the same thing to twenty-four more?"

Eleine shrugs. "Sounds about right to me."

She could shoot her right now; Eleine's not reaching for a hidden weapon, not moving any closer to one of the available exits. There's really nowhere to go for her that ends well. When Emmi found her in the first place it had looked as if she was about to leave, and maybe she was. Get away while she still could, and all that. If Emmi had been a few minutes later she just might have.

But here they are, in what feels like a similar situation. One person about to die, the other headed towards it anyway. Who knows if this will fix anything at all.

"I get why you're angry," Eleine says. "I get it. You're almost angry enough to be one of us. It's a shame you're not older, really. You all would've made _fine_ Sentinels all those years ago. Sentinels, imagine that? Think of how many people you could've killed then."

She's good with her number, believe it or not. Ideally after tonight she'd like to stop, but she's always done what she had to.

To survive.

"At least what I did I did to survive," she says aloud. "What did you do it for? Why did you kill my _dad_ of all people?"

Eleine actually looks thoughtful, as if she's about to come up with something _good_. Emmi thinks that maybe after all of this she deserves an actual explanation.

It would be nice, for once.

"Why not?" Eleine settles on eventually. "Why are you doing _this_?"

It's the truth, and she knows it. For once it doesn't rise as bitterness in her throat, nor does the bad feeling that comes along with admitting it.

She won't be apologetic for being human.

She raises the gun. "Because I want to," she says, and pulls the trigger.

It's almost insignificant. The finality is lackluster, she soon comes to realize. Death never makes anything better, and she would never say she feels happy, exactly. It's something else.

Eleine sags to the ground on her knees, first. The bullet hit somewhere in the middle of her chest over the breastbone; perhaps not instantly fatal, but good enough. More than fucking good enough, if you ask her. At the end of the day it doesn't matter who did what. It just matters that it happened. Take revenge on the people who stole what was yours, what you had... it's just like Eleine said.

It doesn't take longer than a minute or two, the end of which ends with Eleine face down on the floor. There's not even that much blood.

Easier to clean up.

"That make you feel better?" Soran asks, nudging her with the toe of his shoe. She doesn't move.

Emmi nods. "Does it make me a terrible person to admit that?"

"Nah. One of you help me with this, we gotta get outta here and find Tarquin and Ria. Y'know, preferably before she finds them."

She nods again, or maybe she never stopped, but doesn't step forward to help. She just kind of... needs a second. Icarus eventually steps around her when she doesn't move, giving her a silent look. She knows what the means; it's just a check in to make sure that everything is still chugging along in her brain. Nothing ever stopped.

It just took a brief pause in order to settle on her body, the gun hanging limply from her hand.

One down, one more to go. One more small blip on the radar in the grand scheme that is everything.

And isn't that what her life's always been, even up until now?

Everything's changed, and nothing has.

It's almost comforting.

Almost.

* * *

 **Isperia Martorell, 16  
Applicant #17**

* * *

They didn't hear anything.

That was the point, as far as she knows. Lure one far enough away that the other couldn't intervene, and so no one would be able to hear whatever eventually happened. A gunshot would ring out in this place like it was made to echo if they did it anywhere else.

The crowd is still chattering away, though. It's completely deafening.

"I can barely hear myself think," Tarquin mutters, leaning down so that she can hear him. She's been getting swallowed up by this crowd since the second she stepped foot into it. Even now it almost feels like no one cares. It still feels like she's still the unimportant factor in the equation.

Or maybe she just fades into the background better now. Black hair and all that.

It's that or Evander lurking about behind them is getting to people. It's probably that. He's at least mildly scary when he wants to be and definitely a lot bigger and taller than them both. Anyone who gives them too long of a look doesn't last long with him standing there.

"She's been gone for a few minutes now," Evander says, looking around. "She didn't go after them."

"She stayed down here?"

"I think so. But she's definitely not in this room."

She can't even see over anyone's head to tell if that's true, so it's his word against the world evidently. She has to trust it because she has no other option.

"Are you guys still meeting near the back?"

"We're supposed to be."

"Go, then," he says. "I'm gonna head up there and... check."

Check to make sure everything went as planned, she hopes. There's been no sign of any commotion, so hopefully that's a good thing. If something had happened she feels like she'd know, or at least she hopes she would. She'd feel something like that, right?

Tarquin begins to carve a path out through the crowd, gently nudging people out of the way mostly for her benefit, she suspects, so people stop trampling all over her with their spiky looking shoes. Evander wants until they've cleared most of the masses before he splits away.

The next hallway over is blissfully empty compared to the main ballroom. There are still people lurking at the edges, engaged in quiet conversation, but most are so absorbed they don't even glance up.

The ones that do don't last very long.

"They're okay, right?" Tarquin asks, once they've managed their way past the people. "Like nothing bad happened?"

"Evander wouldn't have left them alone if he thought something was going to."

"And Pandora has to still be keeping an eye on her. Right?"

She's not good at being the _reassuring_ one, okay? If she isn't though they're almost certainly both headed for a breakdown about the possible prospects by the end of the night. Then she'll start wondering about the chances of all three of them somehow being dead at Eleine's hand, and well...

It's bad, is all she's saying.

She's trying not to rush, though it feels like they should be running. There's no real reason to. No one's chasing them anymore.

The people who want them dead are taking their sweet time.

Besides, the room they've designated isn't all that far anyway, just tucked away near the back exit to the gardens. It just looked like a sitting room when Pandora showed them, the back wall lined with floor to ceiling windows. It would be a nice place to sit in the afternoon, to kick back and relax. To worry about nothing at all.

It's isolated. Far away from the main event.

It's the exact same as the one upstairs where things hopefully just went their way.

Tarquin opens the door once they arrive, and simultaneously, before he's even got it all the way, they both turn to look behind them. She knows there's nothing, but that's what it feels like. She's never lost the feeling of someone chasing her even weeks later.

There was never going to be anyone.

Well, except for Eriska, standing in the room before them.

Ria loses all of the air collected in her lungs in two very quick, abrupt seconds. Her first thought is run. It's also conveniently the most stupid.

Eriska smiles at the two of them. It's a lot like the smile she gave Ria all the way back at the hospital, and it seemed genuine then. There's no telling what it is now. She looks casual, drink in hand and looking out one of the long windows. What about her wouldn't look casual, though - she's a tiny wisp of a sixty year old woman. In what world would she ever look dangerous?

"Hello," she casually. "Looking for something in particular?"

She's unable to come up with anything, no surprise there. Tarquin smiles though, just as bright. She's hoping only she can tell how fake it is, because his knuckles have gone white around the edge of the door.

"Just the bathroom," he says. She wishes she had any sort of ability to turn on a conversation like that. "Sorry. Do you know where it is?"

But yeah, the bathroom. With her in tow. Likely story.

"There was a whole set of them just outside the ballroom," Eriska informs them. "There was a sign pointing them out past the bar."

Ria remembers that sign, actually. A past version of her would have chosen to hide behind it for the entire night, which is what she wishes she could do right now.

"Got it," Tarquin says. "Sorry about that, again. We'll be—"

"You can come in, if you like," she offers. "And close the door."

It's one of the worst moments of her life, by far, and she's had a lot of those types lately. She hasn't wished for a hole to disappear into in a very long time, and right now she wants one big enough for the both of them. They need to vanish.

"Or you could leave, and I could shoot one of you," she says. "You'll find out who if you try."

She knows. That's not good. She wants to ask who told her, but she also never wants to speak again. Keeping quiet might be the better option. If they run, she's going to shoot Tarquin. Ria just knows that. He'll be the bigger and easier target. If he goes down Eriska has her too by proxy; she couldn't run after that.

Sixty years old, but she still knows what she's doing.

Tarquin steps into the room, eyes firmly forward. She hasn't moved, is the issue. What's she going to do with the drink in her hand, throw it at them? How quickly could she really get a gun out to shoot them? Hopefully not quick enough, but Ria's not about to test that theory. In fact, it's looking a lot like she's going to continue cowering behind Tarquin all while hoping he doesn't get shot either.

He inches the door closed behind them until it clicks shut; the others will be here in a few minutes, too.

How perfect.

"Who told you?" Tarquin asks. He's feigning calm, an enviable trait, but when she grabs a handful of his shirt against his back she can feel him shaking.

It won't last forever.

"You think someone had to tell me?" she fires back. She almost seems offended, as if it was intended as an accusation. "I've been around a lot longer than you, kid. Question _is_ how did it take you so long to figure out? Who _did_?"

"Does that really matter?"

"Well, I'd like to know." She shrugs and takes another sip of her drink. To think she could be a slightly younger replacement for Ria's grandmother - it makes absolutely no sense.

"And what if I don't tell you?"

"Well, I won't force you. I could, but I won't."

"Good to know."

So she won't force them, but she'll consider shooting them? She'd know how to make it hurt, how to kill them instantly and how to draw it out. She's been at it for years. She wanted them dead quick, initially, but it didn't happen. Now she's opting for the slow option.

She knows the rest are coming.

Eriska takes a few steps closer. For someone not much taller than herself she feels awfully terrified.

"Why Carnelia?" she asks finally. "You couldn't have been that close to her."

"Oh, I wasn't. A few of her original group, yes. I trained some of them myself. But I was in contact with her a few times over the years; she wasn't interested in a life other than the one she had."

"And that was killing."

"Surviving, more like. I told her she could do what she liked - kill everyone, if she wanted. Take the last of you and ransom you back to the Capitol. Whatever she liked. She just didn't get the chance. I understand that was _your_ doing if I'm not mistaken."

"I didn't kill her," she manages.

"No, but you caused the explosion that directly killed two of them and led to the deaths of two others. With two of them left after that, what chance did they really have against the lot of you?"

"How does it feel to be the last of them left?" Tarquin asks. "The bad ones."

He's handling this so well, better than she ever could. If they somehow get out of this, and they won't, she'd like to ask him how he does it. Get a few pointers.

Ria really doesn't want to die with a bullet in her.

"So Eleine's gone, is she?" Eriska asks.

They don't know. Maybe, but they don't know for sure. Ria would like if she was. The person who killed her parents, dead... that seems justifiable.

Everything leads to that in the end.

Ria thinks she hears the footsteps first, a second before Tarquin goes tense all over. Eriska glances towards the door, too. If they're coming now that has to mean they did it. It's all according to the plan except for what's before her now.

This wasn't part of it.

The handle turns. Ria closes her eyes and forces them back open just as quick as the door heads in. She sees Emmi's face first, and then all of them. There's no running anymore. All three of them go abruptly still at the sight of it all; Ria would force them back out if she could, but there's no time.

"In," Eriska instructs. One of them swallows so loud she hears it. "Please."

"Or what?" Emmi asks. The gun isn't steady in her hand, and it isn't raised either. There's nothing she'll be able to do in time.

"Are you in the mood to find out?"

Soran nudges them both in, grabs the door, and slams it shut. Apparently not. She doesn't blame him.

"So," Eriska says. "Is she dead?"

There's a little bit of blood on Soran's hands, having seeped underneath his nails. There's a spot of it at the bottom of Icarus' shirt too, just a little dot that's not covered by the end of his jacket. Oh, she's dead alright. Ria's never felt gratitude for something like that like she does now. It's an odd feeling but she doesn't totally hate it.

So who's rubbing off on her, Soran or Emmi? Both of them? All of them?

Great.

"I'd like to know, if you'd be so forthcoming," Eriska says. Ria almost thinks she hears something outside, a figment of her imagination coming to save them, but nothing is. "What was your plan for me? The gun, and hope for the best? Something sneakier? I see the Mervaine's having been quite keenly on your side - poison, perhaps? That seems to have always been their thing. Physical poison, mental poison, all kinds. It doesn't always work, though. You see, poison isn't a guarantee. The Mervaine's aren't either. No one's invincible."

The door opens. She jolts so hard everything hurts; even her heart takes a beating from the simple action.

Everyone does the same at what she thought was her imagination, a desperate hope for nothing at all. She sees it with perfect clarity - the second the door opens and the swing as it comes all the way in, Pandora's face as she takes everything in quicker than Ria ever could, Evander just behind her in a similar state.

And the gun, too, in Pandora's hand. The barrel seemingly pointed almost straight at Ria's head, but she stays resolutely still.

Because it's not.

"It's a good thing I'm not a Mervaine, then," Pandora says. Ria holds her breath.

She pulls the trigger.

* * *

 **Soran Faerber, 19  
Applicant #8**

* * *

It happens so fast he has no time to process it.

The gun goes off. It's just shy of completely silent. It goes right past all of their heads, a straight line that would've ended badly any other way.

And somehow, miraculously, it misses all five of them, just like it was intended to.

He's been prepared for every single thing that's ever happened in his life, or at least that's what it's always felt like. Not this, though. Nothing could have prepared him for what he's looking at it. It's Eriska on the floor, a corpse. A bullet hole in her head and clear out the other side. It appears she's not a Mervaine either, because if she was she would have survived that.

It's Pandora still behind them, too, and Evander even further than that. He looks surprised too, just as surprised as the rest of them.

And it's the gun in her hand one bullet less, no thin trail of smoke like they always portray.

"What happened to you not intervening?" he asks. Her eyes flicker up to his, finally tearing away from the body on the floor, the rapidly forming pool of blood and brain that's seeped out everywhere. As he watches Ria rapidly backpedals as it starts to head in the direction of her shoes. Pandora is still silent, no doubt working away at a response.

She wasn't meant to be a murderer.

"I lost track of her," she explains, but her voice is thick. Sad. "And I had a really bad feeling."

Of course she's sad. That would've made him angry a few weeks ago, for someone to be so upset at someone that didn't deserve it. He gets the feeling though, after meeting Kerensa properly, that she viewed Eriska as more of a mother than anyone else.

And that's her bullet she just put in Eriska's head.

"Fuck," Evander says, strained. He thinks Emmi says it too, or maybe Tarquin. It's more likely that they've all said it at some point in the last five minutes, internally or not. Icarus' grip around his hand is crushing; he doesn't even remember him grabbing onto it in the first place, and he wasn't holding onto it when they had the misfortune to walk in here. The grip might as well express the silent _fuck_ that the few of them have yet to say aloud.

No one's come running yet from the brief noise, quieter than usual. He feels the need to watch the end of the hall even as Evander steps around him, inching closer to the body.

"You dealt with Eleine?" he asks, carefully leaning over to examine it. Not much to examine, really. "You guys need to go, seriously. Before someone starts looking around for you. You've been gone long enough."

"And what about —"

"We'll deal with her," he continues, giving Soran a pointed look. "We've got practice now, remember?"

He manages a smile, but feels it looks more grim than he intended. Evander doesn't smile back. It would be sort of fucked up if he did, which is Soran's specialty at this moment in time. Fucked up is what he's best at.

"Yeah," Pandora says. "Please, go. But first I think you owe me a hug, at least, because I really fucking need one but mostly because I said so."

Oh, she's talking to him. It's evident because Icarus lets go of him at the fastest pace he's ever witnessed before. There isn't anywhere to go unless he quite literally runs away down the hall, but besides that he feels obligated. It's not something he likes feeling, if he's being honest. She just saved his life though, right? Not for much reason, but she saved him from an infinitely more painful one than the one he's going to get.

She wraps her arms tight around his middle and squeezes while him and his limp arms are standing there trying to figure out what to do.

She's a killer like him, and it was mostly for him.

He understands that.

She lets go before he can do much of anything other than hug her back, if you could even call it that. She breaks away from his arms and wipes at her eyes, at the obvious wet sheen to them

"Go," she says again, an echo of how he sounded long ago.

"Thanks," he says. It's not even close to what she deserves, because she deserves more than this. Better than _this_.

Hopefully she can get it without him around.

With a light, gentle hand she nudges him out the doorway and then everyone else after him in quick succession. He gets one last good look at her face, which might now be complete with tears streaming down them. He can't tell before she closes the door, and he has no time to ask either. Like he said, he's the worst. She never deserved any of that.

"Are we really just leaving?" Tarquin asks, eyes still wide as can be. Emmi is muttering under her breath, punctuated with profanity every three or four words.

"Obviously," she says, the only word he's understood thus far.

"Should we not like, be subtle about it? Split up or something?"

Fair point. He doesn't want to because of how well that doesn't tend to go, but he sees the reasoning behind it. If they all split and run out the doors something is going to look obvious, whatever it is.

"Okay, you go then," Icarus says, and it's clear he's pointing to Emmi. For some reason she seems the most likely to bolt. "Go and get the car, bring it around front. You two go out after her in a few minutes, just sit in the ballroom and look normal, or something. We'll wait a few minutes longer."

He wants to leave too. Emmi bolts the second someone gives her permission. Ria stares at them both for a heartbeat longer and winds up having to jog to catch up to Tarquin, who's already halfway down the hall after her towards the ballroom. He doesn't want to be here. He's the one most likely to get blamed for all of this shit if someone finds out, if all five of them don't just get blamed outright.

"I don't want to be here," he says aloud, but it appears that Icarus ignores him, or at least tries to. He takes his hand again and pulls him closer to the back door and then out onto the patio. Only two other people are lingering out there, doing suspiciously couple-like things that end quickly because of the staring match that ensues the second the door clatters shut behind them.

The man stares at them. The woman stares at them while trying not to stare at them.

The man eventually pulls the woman inside by the hand, giving him a downright filthy look over his shoulder as they leave.

He wins. He's not happy about it, but he wins.

"This is so fucked," Icarus announces. He's glad someone finally said it.

"Why do you not want to leave then?"

"Oh, I do. I just, fuck, I don't know. I want to hug you or something first."

Soran waits. He waits, but Icarus doesn't actually hug him, or do anything other than stand there. He's not even talking.

That's a first.

"You can do that anytime, you know," he informs him. He's awfully popular for the hugs tonight, but it's not about him. Everyone just sort of... needs one. He can count on one hand how many times in his life he's felt as if he actually needed a hug, and almost all of them have come in the past month. He wouldn't be opposed to another one right now.

"I know." Icarus sighs. "None of this seems fucking real. Like if we go back inside they'll both still be alive, or something."

"That would be extremely terrible for us."

He laughs. "Yeah. Fuck. How the hell did we end up here?"

"Lots of terrible decision making."

"I meant us."

"I stand by what I said."

Icarus laughs again. "You're such an asshole."

"So you've told me."

"I'm sorry," he responds, but finally does no short of Soran already expected him to do and all but dives into his arms, rocking them back and forth.

"You're not, though."

"Not really."

His laugh finally quiets, lost into the side of Soran's neck. He lets them sway a bit more and then stills them. It's no longer awkward, all of this, or any of it. He's an awful person, there's no doubt about it, but maybe he deserves a hug every now and again. It could get him places if he had more time.

"I don't wanna do this," Icarus mumbles.

"Neither do I."

"At least you're not scared, though."

"I'm scared," he admits. "I'm just better at hiding it than you are."

All these years of never knowing what his future even looked like didn't prepare him for this. He always had ideas, visions of things that wouldn't really exist. A hope maybe, somewhere deep down.

And now he's got nothing.

He lets them stay like that for a few minutes. There's no one around to interrupt it; they can be themselves and do what they want in their last few hours here, or at least for a few more minutes. Icarus hasn't looked up since he initially dove into Soran's arms in the first place, but his own chin is perched on top of Icarus' shoulder too. They're both sort of awkwardly hunched over, holding onto each other too right. He's a liar in at least one respect, because he still doesn't understand how they ended up here, terrible decision making or not.

He never will.

"You ready?" he asks quietly. It ought to be that time by now.

"Never."

He's the same. They're the same, and it's good for him.

Soran sighs, and doesn't want to, but releases him all the same. "Let's go."

They've run out of time to avoid it.

* * *

Welcome to the 60's. Goodbye Apocalypse now, say hello to new territory.

Just the two epilogues left. Yes, I know. Don't hate me too much.

In the meanwhile, though I'll be putting something else up next week. No, it's not an SYOT, but I'll shoot a notice out once it's up.

Speaking of an SYOT, I should probably write the long, stupidly sappy note _now_ that way the epilogues can be left alone as is. As it stands now I have no plans to write a fifth SYOT - I have an idea for one (thanks Ida), but I'm definitely not getting to it right now, and possibly not ever. That's not to say it won't ever happen - I'll never close that door, but this fourth one here was intended to be an ending for both a series and for myself, and if that's what I leave it off on, I'm completely satisfied with it. Whether or not I write a fifth SYOT, to me, does not matter.

At the end of the day, what matters to me is that I eventually wrote and completed four stories and also a lot more in the process because of them. During those four stories I learned a lot, grew in my writing, made a lot of amazing friends that I hope I'm close with for a very long time, and I'm happy with that. When I started Fields of Battle it was half a joke - I never knew if I would finish it, or what would happen if I did. And then all of this happened. I never could have foreseen it the way it worked out, but the surprise was way better than I thought it could ever be.

Don't get me wrong, either, I'm definitely not leaving. I may still post a few things here and there outside of AO3, and who knows, maybe one day I will write that fifth SYOT. It's up in the air. But if I never do, know that I'm very, extremely thankful for everyone here - everyone that I've spoken to, everyone who has ever left me a review, or anyone who has even just clicked on a story of mine and read it. To the friends I have, thank you for putting up with my endless amounts of bullshit and for, in turn, allowing me to have a lot more than I ever thought I would. It means more than I can genuinely put into words.

Even if we've never really talked, thank you. Feel free to add me on Discord even if we haven't. Shoot me a PM, if you want. I'm not going anywhere, I'm just not writing another one, and who knows what the future holds. You might see me publish one in three months. You might see me publish one in two years, if you're still around. This account may never have something uploaded on it again.

I really, truly don't know, and I'm okay with that. I hope everyone else can be too.

Love you all.

Until next time.


	61. I'll See You Tomorrow

Epilogue, Part One: The Capitol - Rose Point Estate.

* * *

 **Pandora Quinn, 29  
Member of the New Haven Federation**

* * *

She hardly sleeps a wink all night.

It's a cliche thing, something you hear about all the time. It's fictitious, really, or you think it is until it happens. She's had her fair share of sleepless nights same as everyone else, but never quite like this.

It rotated in shift-like moments. She let Evander stare at her from his not-sleeping position on the couch because he had insisted on staying somewhere near to her. If she actually has the nerve to return to her bedroom Crynn tends to hold onto her, arms just a little too tight, but it never lasts for very long. She doesn't deserve that; _he_ doesn't deserve that. It was her action, her thought.

That's the thing - it wasn't thoughtless. She didn't walk into that room with no knowledge, without any intention to shoot. She knew she might have to, and when she opened the door she did.

She keeps seeing it. The blood. There hadn't been as big of a spray of it as she had anticipated. By the time they were done there was more on the floor than anywhere else that they had to clean up. Pandora remembers her body slumping to the floor in one quick, jerky motion and how Evander had eventually had to pry the gun out of her icy fingers long minutes later, after they had all gone.

Crynn was waiting when they had got back just shy of midnight. She was properly crying by the time she stumbled through the door, and then he had started crying because she was. Evander, for his credit, had lurked on the front path for a few moments and let them act that way in peace.

No one besides her mother had even given her a look when she had finally left the gala. It wasn't an accusatory glare, an unnerving stare. It wasn't really anything at all.

No one knew, but that was how it had to be. No one could.

They had gotten rid of too many bodies to let it fail now.

It feels like several days mashed together by the time the night starts to trickle away into a hazy, gray dawn. Crynn's finally asleep, motionless beside her, and Evander's disappeared from the couch. The blanket he had been using is folded over the top of it, cold to the touch. He's been gone a while.

Everything is cast over in dark light both inside and out; appropriate enough for a slated execution day.

She looks even more haggard than whatever's happening outside, though. Her eyes are still red and cheeks still slightly puffy. There's make-up smeared under her eyes and tucked away into every little nook and cranny of her face. She can't even begin to understand what's gone on with her hair, but she can't remember taking it down or even brushing it any time after they got back last night, so that must explain it. She can't very well go up to the main house looking like this.

It's something her mother would do, something she always does. Fake it. She doesn't like being that person, but it's like she said - there's no other option but to do it.

So that's what she does. She washes her face and brushes her hair through at least three times before it's anywhere near socially acceptable standards. She even gets re-dressed despite not having really changed after last night in the first place, into clothes that look slightly less intimidating and more like her. It's complete with one of Crynn's sweaters, at least two sizes too big on her. It gives her something to hide in, though, and it covers the ever so faint rise of her stomach that wasn't there before.

She has to fess up one day, she knows that. But not today.

Today, if she could have it her way, wouldn't even exist.

She decides to let Crynn sleep for a while longer while she makes her way back up to the house; he deserves it after putting up with her last night. The walk up, even though it's misty, is nice to clear her head. It also gives her time to prepare.

By the time she hits the back door she's worked out just how to properly smile at people without it looking too forced or strained. Most people wouldn't say anything if they did notice, but she can't be too careful. Not after what she did.

She just can't help but think about her dad and the hole he got in his own head. Her mother allowed her to look at the photos when she was old enough, when she had finally gotten the nerve to ask. There was a lot more blood in them than what had come out of Eriska. She wasn't sure how it worked. Was there more blood when it came out the other way? Maybe.

Her dad wasn't inherently good or evil either way, but she knows he didn't deserve that. At least she can live knowing Eriska did.

The first person to greet her is one of her mother's assistants, bright-eyed and up early as always. She smiles and bids her good morning, so Pandora does the same.

She's fundamentally no different, at all. Or at least she is and no one can know about it.

There's more going on than she would have anticipated though. There are a few people bustling around here and there, looking more hasty than they usually would. It could have to do with her mother's work, perhaps, a direct result of the gala, but it doesn't seem that way. Everything is happening too urgently for it to just be work.

She spends the next few minutes looking for a face that's at least halfway familiar, one that would talk to her honestly. Tycho is lurking outside the kitchens, no surprise there, but instead of his usual cheerful wave and smile his mouth turns down into a frown at the sight of her.

Oh, God, she might throw up.

"Have you seen them?" he asks, and she stutters to a halt in front of him. She had intended to keep on walking before he could ask her any sort of awkward question, but that's not what she expected to hear.

"Who?"

He pauses. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," she says. "What's going on?"

"Evander said you two didn't see them leave the gala last night - is that true?"

"I mean, I knew they were leaving but I didn't escort them out. Is something wrong?"

"Nobody can find them," he hisses. "People have been combing the place for a half hour now and nothing. We've got someone checking the security feeds but if I had to put money down right now I'd say they never came back in the first place."

 _Never came back in the first place._

She doesn't even know what time they left, or what car they ended up taking. Crynn would know, but he's not here right now. She didn't take them outside because she had more _pressing_ _matters_ to deal with in that moment in time. All she could do was trust that the five of them would get out unscathed and she would continue with the work that only got dirtier and dirtier by the day.

"Oh my god," she breathes. "I— shit, I need to find them. I need to find them before someone else does."

"Do you think you can?"

"I have to," she insists, turning on her heel. She needs to find Evander, too. Together they can find them; there really isn't other option presenting itself. It's that, or...

She doesn't even know. Is she supposed to know?

"They're supposed to be _dead_ in four hours!" Tycho yells after her. "If you were them, would you let yourself be found? Would you really come back?"

It doesn't matter what she would do as she's not the one in the position. All she can do, all she _has_ to do, is find them. There's no telling what she'll be able to do, but it's something. It's better than horrific scenarios that are unfolding in front of her right now, all of the gruesome endings that are even worse than the one already mapped out. Maybe Tycho's right. Maybe if she were them she'd be gone too while she still had the chance. She doesn't know if she could come back.

But they have to.

And they will.

* * *

 **Tarquin Vierra, 16  
Applicant #4**

* * *

He's decided he doesn't like gray very much.

It just makes everything look dead, which he doesn't like either. He hates that, really.

He can't imagine that it actually looks this bad outside; it has to be because they've trapped themselves inside the car for the whole of the night, far away from any signs of real imposing civilization. There's nothing and no one to really disturb them.

That was the point, he knows, but it all just sort of feels dead.

"Am I the only one that's uncomfortable as fuck?" Emmi asks out of the blue. Tarquin had gone a few minutes up until this point believing he was the only one awake, but it doesn't appear that way anymore. He sits up a bit, and someone shifts in the seat behind him. Emmi drapes herself over the steering wheel and props her chin up on the top of it, turning to the left to give him a look.

"Well, we did just spend the night sleeping in the car," he reminds her. There's a low groan from one of the backseats as if they're loathed to be reminded of it in the first place.

"Speaking of, who's taking the car?" Soran asks blearily. Tarquin's put some thought into it himself, but so far no one else has spoken up. Ria lefts her head free from the entrapment of her knees and raises an eyebrow at him.

"I mean, if no one else needs it," he starts.

"I'll walk," Emmi offers, and Soran nods as well, though Icarus doesn't look the least bit impressed at the idea of walking anywhere right now.

Tarquin knows what the two of them are doing, vaguely, and what he and Ria have planned, but Emmi hasn't been so forthcoming.

He's never been one to pry, either.

"Alright, well, see you assholes," Emmi says casually, and then pops open the door and steps out. "Or not."

He blinks, and she's gone. He launches himself across the console and into the front seat, quickly climbing out after her. It doesn't feel right to just let her go like that, not with what they're doing. He _can't_ let her go.

"Hey," he says. "Wanna give me a hug?"

Now that he thinks of it, really, he's not sure Emmi has been offered the level of comfort that any of them really have. She does have them, there's no doubt about it, but does she really have her person? He doesn't think so. Realistically she lost her person out in the valley.

He should have done that sooner.

She pauses. "Are you gonna get all sappy on me?"

"Probably."

She laughs though, finding the humor in a day that completely lacks it otherwise, and steps forward to hug him. He's already told himself he's not crying today, and he's sticking to that no matter how much he wants to.

"You don't have to go alone, you know," he murmurs over her shoulder.

"I know," she says quietly. "I want to, though. It's okay."

Tarquin doesn't get that, but won't pretend to either. He's never wanted to be alone, at least not permanently. It feels like he needs someone around at all times to keep him present, to keep him ground.

They can't all be the same.

"Besides," she says, pulling back to squeeze his shoulders. "I got my own idea. Keep me out of your weird shenanigans."

"Bet yours are weirder."

"Oh, probably," she agrees. "Be careful."

"Not much point, is there?"

There always is, but oddly enough right now isn't leading to an always. Not one that he knows. And besides, when have they actually been careful? It's not the type of thing that's ever gotten them anywhere.

Emmi pulls away from him suddenly, smacking away at Icarus' waving arms, which are dangling out one of the back windows reaching for her. Considering he's been volunteered to walk to his intended destination Tarquin thinks he should just get out of the car if he wants a hug that badly, but that's none of his business.

He lets himself inch back to the car and slips into the driver's seat silently, keeping his eyes to himself. A minute or so later Ria clambers back into the car next to him.

Soran kicks the frame of the car next to him to get his attention. "Where are you going?"

"Where are _you_ going?"

"Hell, probably." He shrugs. "See you there?"

"Definitely."

Soran slams the door shut, reaching through the half-open window to knock a fist into Tarquin's shoulder, though the blow is nowhere near harsh. It's more of a goodbye than anything else, and it's a lot more than he thought he was ever going to get.

It's not a hard benchmark to pass when he ought to be dead a few times over.

It doesn't stop him from remembering what he didn't get, though. He didn't say goodbye to that damn clingy little cat, who made him feel like he wasn't alone when the feeling was otherwise overwhelming. The people like Tycho who just only ever tried to make him feel normal, Shoah and Dr. Arranmore who actually tried to _help_...

It upsets him more than words could express that it doesn't matter now.

"Good?" he asks Ria, starting the car. He only has the vaguest idea on what he's really doing in it; it's a good thing the morning has yet to barely start, or he could have some mighty concerns on his hands traveling down any given road. Ria looks as nervous as he feels about it, but it's not about that.

"We don't have to go yet, if you're not."

"No, it's okay. I'll just... think on the way there, I guess. It's not too far from here, right?"

"Just a few minutes."

She hums. "Okay."

He leaves it at that while he edges the car out of the empty lot and out onto the even emptier road, a miracle amidst everything else. It takes all of the concentration in the world even with nothing going on around them, and by the time he does the other three are long gone, down opposite roads.

He still hates the silence.

"You can tell me, you know," he offers. "Or not, if you don't want to."

She actually smiles. "Do you remember what you told me back at Witsonee? About us getting out of this, and if it was worth it?"

He doesn't take his eyes off the road. "I'm not expecting you to thank me after all of this shit."

"It wasn't all bad though, was it?"

Tarquin snorts. "Like ninety-nine percent, I'd say."

"You coming back was good. Objectively speaking. For me, anyway. You can disagree with that."

"I think it was good too," he murmurs, and that just makes him the most awful person in the world. Him not dying when he was supposed to got both of his parents killed. For all he knows the tick over from four to five made everything else so much worse too. There are too many regrets in him to place and count, but even the one percent is good.

And he's glad he got that, before he's gone for good.

He glances over to watch Ria pull both legs up onto her seat, but that's all that happens for the rest of the ride. This part of the city is still home to him through and through, the lakefront and all the stores and restaurants alongside it.

Even his home, ruined now, is still nestled somewhere deep in his heart. There's a reason he went back, after all.

"It really is nice," Ria says, a vocal echo of his internal thoughts. "We didn't come to this end of the city much."

Tarquin probably never would have met her if this hadn't happened. Is he grateful for that, then? Does he get more and more awful by the minute?

He definitely does.

He turns down the road leading to the water's edge, bypassing the towering forms of the apartments across the road. They're almost enough to obscure Summerview Park from his eyes as they continue on, but when he pulls the car off next to the break-wall and pier he can still see just a bit, one singular corner.

All of that gray he was complaining off is rapidly burning off as the sun rises, higher and higher. They won't be here long enough to see it properly, but it's nice for now.

He just has to do this one more thing. Put his hands on the wheel and his foot on the gas.

The water's right fucking there. He rolls up the window. He thinks it's kind of ironic now that the two of them were supposed to go up in flames at some point or or other. It's cosmic karma that they're not going out that way now. Besides, he thinks he's been burning for long enough.

"You never told me about Jay," he says, and Ria's eyes flicker to his uneasily. "He left me, you know. If I hadn't done what I did, him leaving would have gotten me killed."

"But you don't hate him for that."

He laughs. "How can I hate him for that? After what I did?"

"You did that to survive."

"I did that for _you_ to survive. And he left me because he wanted to survive, and you killed him for the same reason. That's it. That's all I'm realizing."

"So what does that mean?"

"That none of us are bad people, really. Even if I think I am. Even if the world does."

She smiles, but it's awfully sad. "It's a shame no one else is going to know that."

Tarquin puts the car back in drive, but doesn't move. Not yet. He needs a few more seconds, but that's it.

"No, but I know that," he says quietly. "And I think that makes it okay."

She nods, looking a bit like she's going to cry. He told himself no one was getting tears out of him today, and he meant that.

He's not an evil person, and he's done crying.

"Go time?" he asks. She nods and reaches over, palm up. He's not surprised for once; Ria, he thinks, will always be an absolute mystery, but maybe not to him. And that he _is_ grateful for.

He grabs her hand and presses down on the gas.

The water's right there, and he's grateful to finally be doused.

* * *

 **Icarus Devereux, 17  
Applicant #10**

* * *

"This is undoubtedly the worst," he announces.

Soran rolls his eyes, no doubt wondering why Icarus has waited through twenty minutes of uninterrupted, walking silence to say it now.

"Maybe a little dramatic?"

"Have you met me?"

"Unfortunately."

He swats at him and Soran jogs away from him further down the sidewalk, cackling like a fiend. He's in awfully high spirits for you know... all of this. If Icarus had to guess, he actually looks a tad excited. That's not a sign of someone in their right mind whatsoever. It would be more concerning if he thought Soran was ever in his right mind since the day he met him.

And oddly enough, however, he gets it. He's ready to be done with this too.

If this is what it takes, then so be it.

He can see it, though, is the thing, and his resolve is cracking piece by fragile piece. He feels like he's about to shatter, or at least run in the opposite direction. It's one thing to think it and another thing to be facing it. It's like watching Eriska about to potentially murder them all over again.

At least this time it's not the threat of someone else's hands, just his own. He never said he was thinking intelligently about any of this.

"Oh, is this it?" Soran shouts behind him, and he winces. There's no one around to hear it - this place is famously desolate near the edge of the city, populated mostly by families looking to picnic or hikers once the day warms up. There might be a few stragglers as the minutes go on, but not enough to pick them out of an otherwise very normal place.

He follows Soran up the hill, slowly, watching as he crests the top and grabs the railing at the edge of the bridge, looking over. He joins him though he doesn't want to, and when he wraps his own hand around the paint flaking away at the barrier it's shaking.

"I fucking hate heights," he comments idly, trying to keep the shake out of his voice too.

"Bit late for that now, isn't it?"

It sure fucking is. The damn thing has to be two-hundred feet up in the air, if not more than that, and that's not even the worst part. He's been in that water before, so many years ago. It's deep, and cold as shit, and there are rapids around the next bend that eventually feed into the even colder lake.

He should have never suggested this.

Soran hops up, swings one leg over the railing, and then two. Icarus is nearly sick just watching him, and swallows several times over until Soran is standing firmly on the half a foot of platform that extends out from the other side. Their only other companion, a lone pigeon perched at the edge of it, squawks and takes off at his sudden arrival.

Icarus can't say he blames the poor thing when it's exactly what he wishes he could get.

"Do you reckon this is better or worse than lethal injection?" he asks, unwilling to let go of the railing. He doesn't even want to get off the sidewalk.

"I guess it depends."

"On _what_?"

"If the fall actually kills you or not. Or if you drown after breaking like, every bone in your body."

He stares at him. "Was that meant to be comforting?"

"Not really."

"Good, because it wasn't."

It wasn't at all, really. He broke what, two bones in his ankle and thought he was dying? Soran broke more ribs than he cared to count and sort of technically died several days later as a result of it, too. That coupled with not managing to get back to the surface, the water filling your lungs...

Maybe the needle would be better. It's just one thing, a few quick seconds.

Though he supposes falling would take just as long. And if you did die on impact, well, that's probably quicker than getting poisoned from the inside out.

"I can and will leave you here," Soran informs him, nudging his hand. He only clings on tighter. "Let go of it."

"No."

"I'll do it without you."

"Don't you _dare_ ," he snaps. Soran reaches forward again and pries each off his fingers off the railing one by one, a grand feat for someone who's hand only has halfway feeling anymore. If it wasn't something so serious he'd have bet that he was lying about it by now.

"I'm not going to fucking push you off, you know," Soran says flatly. "You'd be back and haunting my ass before I could even do it myself."

"I know that."

"Then get over here."

He doesn't have much of a choice, does he? His other option is tear himself away and run screaming down the hill, to which he would probably trip, fall, and roll the whole damn way down anyway. That leaves Soran here, and he doesn't very well like the idea of leaving him alone on the precipice of a bridge.

He doesn't like the thought of being on the bridge at all.

He eases one leg over and then the other, only keeping his eyes open so that he can make sure his feet are safely going to land on solid ground. It's not that he thinks Soran is going to push him, per say, he just doesn't trust the fact that he's not going to get fucked with a little bit. A shove won't put him over the edge, but it might just give him a heart attack. He also might decide to beat Soran to death after said little shove before anything else gets accomplished.

Soran, miraculously, doesn't do anything other than just stand there. He's still got one of Icarus' hands, and he reaches back to grab the railing again with the other.

"If I look down I might throw up," he says.

"Don't look down?" Soran suggests. "Look at literally anything else?"

He looks up, expecting a nice reassuring morning sky, maybe some birds and some fluffy, pleasant clouds. All he gets is a wave of dizziness that nearly puts him flat on his ass, or into open air where the platform ends.

"Nope," he says. "That's worse."

"Keep your eyes closed, then."

He's definitely going to do that. Not seeing is almost worse, but there's no overwhelming feeling of anything bad from the get-go. He just won't look at anything, ever again.

Soran leans forward a bit and he feels it, clamping his hand down tighter around his fingers, refusing to let go.

"It really is high up," he comments.

"Stop."

"I don't enjoy heights any more than you do."

"Yeah, well, you're not the one freaking out."

"I _can't_ ," Soran says, punctuated with a laugh. "If I started freaking out right now alongside you, what would you do? Die on the spot?"

"Probably."

"See?"

"Well, I'm very grateful for your ability to not feel anything at the most inopportune of times."

"Oh, I'm feeling plenty of things."

"Like what?"

"It's a _secret_ ," Soran emphasizes, nearly directly into his ear. He takes the opportunity to shuffle even closer to him, something else to anchor himself on, and buries his face in his shoulder. Icarus can open his eyes, now, even if all he can see and feel against them is the slightly scratchy fabric of Soran's shirt. It's fine. He's totally fine like this.

He doesn't want to stand here forever, but he _does_.

The other option is worse.

The utter terror is choking off everything else, too. Every good thought he could have, every slightly pleasant thing he could say. There's not much time for it, but there's a lot he could get through. A simple _thank-you_ might suffice for the majority of it, but most of all for Soran never leaving him alone. Not now, and not before.

Icarus doesn't think he could have done this alone.

That's why one other thing is coming to mind, one other big thing, but he doesn't think he can. What sort of time length has been put on these types of things, on the weight of these words? Is there one? He has no idea anymore.

He wants to, though.

Soran pulls away from him so suddenly that he reels a bit, reaching forward to grasp at his shirt again. Soran pulls further away until he's hardly holding onto him at all, glancing over his shoulder.

"There's a fucking car coming up the hill," Soran says under his breath, like he's not concerned at all. Icarus, for one, is very concerned.

And he can't fucking say it now.

The panic must be evident in his eyes when Soran turns around again, because he smiles. Icarus wishes he could do the same.

"Hey," Soran says. "Look at me."

"This whole fucking thing is awful."

"I know. You're good."

"I'm really not."

"You are," he insists, putting a hand on each side of Icarus' face. "You're good. We're good."

He can hear the car, now. Seconds until he can see it, until it can see them. And those seconds are all they have, after all of this. Everything here and it came down to this. It's just not fucking enough. The car crests the top of the hill after that; he thinks he sees the person behind the wheel look towards the edge of the bridge, just for a second...

"Hey," Soran says again, and then he kisses him, just once. A heartbeat, and that's it. " _We're good_."

He's not, but they are. He believes that.

And he still believes it, as Soran pulls the both of them over.

* * *

 **Emmi Langlois, 17  
Applicant #13**

* * *

Being alone is hard.

Navigating it is trickier, she thinks, when you have little practice at it. Someone like Ria, she supposes, operated that way for years and is just inherently good at it. When you spend enough time trying you acquire the ability to become practically invisible. After that it's just... easy. Minimum interference.

It's not easy for her.

She got that from her dad. Her mom was good at being alone, and liked it sometimes too. But her dad, _god_ her dad, he hated it. He was always waiting with such a big smile on his face when she got home from school each day like he had spent every single second missing her.

She tried to find out where he is now, if he's anywhere at all. It didn't work.

So she goes to her mom instead.

They haven't been back to the Capitol for two years now. They, once upon a time, and just her now. Most of her mother's family moved out of the city once the Capitol opened its borders, and her and her father followed not long after. There's no one left here that really cares.

Just her mom, too far underground. Just her.

The cemetery lot is blissfully empty on an early Friday morning - there's a car parked near the main building, but she quickly skirts down the side path around it and deeper into the place itself, avoiding any sort of other presence entirely. She's still got the gun, the weight of it heavy along the inside pocket of the jacket she practically stole off Soran's back.

She needed it more than he did.

No one here would hear her out about that though, now would they?

She feels like a foreign being walking through this place now, like an invader. It feels like she's tainting a place that should otherwise be so holy and so peaceful, otherwise silent. Her very presence here is one big _fuck you_ to the universe, as if she's rubbing it in their faces that they weren't able to put her here too. She's sure someone wanted to.

When she finally comes across the designated spot she foregoes the solid stone bench and skirts around the half-grown oak tree just at its side, sitting down in the grass with her legs crossed. Even though the morning itself is dim and the tree is casting plenty of shade on her, she's still just warm enough to be comfortable, and sheds the jacket onto the ground in front of her. It's just her, her mother, and a jacket and a gun lying between them.

Her mother, she thinks, would be greatly disappointed in her.

"Hi," she starts. "I would've come sooner, but y'know. Complications. I don't think anyone would have let me."

Pandora would have let her, if she had the guts to ask. Pandora would have brought her here directly.

She doesn't know why she's even bothering to tell a lie to a literal fucking metal pot in the ground filled with what may or may not be ashes. It's not like she would know if it wasn't, if someone had just tossed a handful of dirt in there and called it a day. She wouldn't have known back then and she definitely wouldn't have known now.

She reaches forward to pull away a few overhanging strands of grass, picking at them with her fingers.

"I don't get how you weren't scared," she says. "You knew you were dying and even if you _were_ putting on a brave face for us I don't think you were really scared at all. And I'm scared. I've always been scared and I'm scared right now."

Emmi never had it in her to admit that aloud, not to anyone that felt the same way. And she _knows_ they did.

She just doesn't know why she couldn't say it herself until now.

It does feel like she can breathe just a little easier now that she has, though. Even sitting in front of her mother's barren grave it still feels like a weight has been lifted off her shoulders that has been sitting there for far too long. She's allowed to be scared, and it's okay if she is. She had every reason in the world to feel that way after what's happened to her.

She's both lost and been through more than what most people do in their entire life. Her mom and dad and Arwen and the possibility of everything that could've gone right, just once. She's not ungrateful for having survived.

It just doesn't always feel like enough, is all.

"I think you would've liked her," she says to empty air. She doesn't know who she's talking to now, her mom or Arwen. Both of them, maybe. She can only dream that in another world they would have cared for each other like she cared for each of them, that she could have had a life with everything she deserved in it. A life at all, really, because the one she knows now is gone.

Or it will be, in just a minute.

She allows herself to lay down in the cool grass right alongside the headstone buried in it. The sky here isn't as clear as it was out there, not nearly as pretty. Nothing here is.

At this point she ought to be crying, and the long-dead familiar feeling of it is prickling at her eyes, but nothing is really coming out.

There's nothing to mourn, really. She's the only one left. The others, they might be gone by now. All she knows is that she has to follow and say goodbye to _this_ , which is also coincidentally everything she's ever known.

Eight feels insignificant. Her friends, her home there - they don't deserve that. But that's the truth.

She pulls the gun free from the jacket and holds it above her, letting it dangle from two fingers. She killed someone with this thing last night; it doesn't feel heavy enough to hold that kind of power, but it does, and it will again. It's good at ending things.

Emmi looks to the side and reaches out her hand to brush along the edge of the stone, right where the engravings begin. She thinks she feels a tear slip out, just one that rolls off the edge of her face and into the grass, but that's it.

"I love you, you know that?" she asks, but there's no one to respond. It's not even just to her mom, but everyone that _would_ know... they're all gone.

They're better off for that, if she got this for living.

She tightens her grip on the gun and turns it around. Staring down the barrel feels like a fatality in itself, a single pinpoint of darkness about to open up into a black hole.

But this is her life, and she's not letting someone else take it. It's hers, and she's the one that gets to end it.

The slide _clicks_ when she pulls back on it and rests her finger over the trigger. Emmi takes one massive deep breath that shakes her whole body at the end of it, a really good one that lasts just long enough.

She feels alive, properly alive, for the first time in a long time, and it lasts just a second.

And it's easy enough, easier than it should be, when she pulls the trigger.

* * *

[My Happy Ending by Avril Lavigne playing, distantly]

Alternatively, mmm whatcha say. Up to you.

The **Invictus AU** is officially live on AO3. If you don't know what that means, you're one of the lucky ones. I made the decision to write an AU of Apocalypse Now, and this one is getting the same treatment. Should be fun.

You can find me under the same penname there - alternatively, if you're lazy like me, and want a direct link, hit me up. Or miss the fun. It's your decision.

Until next time.


	62. Neverland

Epilogue, Part Two: The Capitol - Rose Point Estate.

* * *

 **Evander Quinn, 26  
** **Volunteer Support Service Personnel; Army Branch**

* * *

He's seen a lot of things.

Not _that_ many, really. A few bodies now, in his time. A decent bit of blood. More things than he'd have ideally like to have seen by this time in his life. He's had to look at his own reflection in a hospital bathroom mirror with the brand new hearing aids tucked behind his ears and try to process what was going on exactly.

Evander thought he was good at that now. Everybody has their talents; his were listening, and perceiving, and accepting. That's what his dad would say when they were younger, that he was always quick on the uptake. Even quicker than Pandora, and she was just better at everything. The grades, the manners, the behavior. It was always her.

Maybe that's why he's left her tucked away now, where it's safer. Where he can deal with the grisly details.

He thought he was good at one more thing, too, and that's understanding. He even managed to wrap his brain around his father's own death, eventually, the reasoning behind it.

But this... he can't process this.

He even gives it as much time as physically possible, but nothing happens. Maybe if there was more of it out there, but he's not sure. Time is never something he has enough of.

When he steps off the sidewalk and back into the road he notices the reporters, only two of them. Two is more than often enough. One rights themselves and takes a few steps towards him, he notices, but absolutely no closer to the line of caution tape the police have strung up around the side of the bridge. There's even more down below - he can just barely see it on the shoreline just before the next bend, creating a wide semi-circle just before the water.

He gets into the car and locks all of the doors. One of the reporters is up and tapping at the glass before he can even start the car. They're saying something, asking questions, but he can barely hear them over the roaring in his ears. He has half a mind to rip his hearing aids out but he doesn't think he has the heart, nor the energy, to have anything else destroyed today.

It's all destroyed, and he's trying desperately not to cry.

He hasn't in a while, is the thing. Not because he hasn't allowed himself to, just because there hasn't been any good reason for it. There's been emotion building under the surface for months and it's all finally culminated these past few weeks into _today_...

His phone is ringing insistently and buzzing at regular intervals in-between it. It has to be Pandora because there's no other option. He told her that he would find them, that there was no other option.

And he did... he didn't, though.

This is just all his fucking fault, isn't it? He let them go in the first place - he let them _out_ in the first place and then didn't have a single fucking thought to check on them afterwards. He didn't make sure they were asleep in their beds, that they had come back at all. They vanished and he had no idea and then they —

The phone starts ringing again. He puts the car into drive and nearly hits the reporter on his way down the bridge.

It feels like his whole body is going numb, the feeling creeping up into his legs and then all the way down his arms. That can't be good. He may just have to pull the car over to be sick out the window at this rate. It's that thought that makes him go so fast, and he's back home in record time. The gates barely open in time to allow him through and he considers barreling through them head-on just before they do. At this point it's not about anything that's safe or practical, least of all reliable. He doesn't care what happens to him anymore. He hasn't cared about that in years.

He's not sure when it finally happens, but he doesn't realize he's crying until he's out of the car and halfway through the building to where he left her last. Only a handful of people pass him at that time but he can't distinguish one from another; what he can't tell is that they all give him a look over, undoubtedly alarmed and most definitely confused.

Because they don't realize yet. The reporters haven't gotten to the news. But when they do...

"Evander!"

He stops dead at Pandora's voice, and a second later her hand curls around his elbow for good measure. So she's not where he left her, then. At least she didn't leave altogether.

At least someone's finally not gone.

"Hey, what's wrong?" she asks, voice pitching up. "Ev, hey, breathe for me."

He's past hyperventilating. There's practically no air going in or out of him at all, and it's making the tears worse. Pandora squeezes both of his arms so tight that he feels nails digging into his skin, and while alarming at least it means he hasn't totally froze over. He can still feel it.

"Breathe," she repeats. "Talk to me. Did you find them?"

He nods, even though he shouldn't. He didn't find them. Someone else did. Someone else did, and it was too late.

"You found them? Where are they?"

He's still nodding, stupidly. He wishes he could stop. "Someone— they found the car in the lake, the car that we gave them, and—"

"What?" she breathes. "What are you talking about?"

"The car," he says again. "The car, it's in the water, and they said it had two bodies inside of it, and the groundskeeper at Pineview found another one, they said he heard the gunshot, and they told me something happened at the bridge and it was just crawling with police and there was a car— a car saw it happen and saw two people go over, but they haven't found the fucking bodies—"

Pandora is shaking her head, steadily, a mirror image to him. They've always been that for each other.

He's watching what happened to him happen to her. The motions of horror that are quickly overtaking her face, inch by inch, until it's all he can see. It envelopes and invades everything else in the worst sort of way. He vividly remembers that reaction when dad died. It was on the face of everyone around him.

Her hands are shaking where they've tightened around his arms, but now it's to the point of pain. He can't tell her to let go.

"Evander," she says slowly, voice shaking as well. "No, that's not... where did they go? Where are they?"

"They're gone."

"No," she repeats. "No, they're not, they're— we have to get them back."

"They're _gone_ ," he snaps finally, pulling away from her. She stumbles a bit, eyes welling with tears. He almost wants to grab her and shake some sense into her, take her by the shoulders until she fucking gets it for once. He can't even bring himself to touch her.

They're gone, and they knew what they were doing. It wasn't random at all.

It's less than two hours now until they were supposed to take them. Until they were supposed to die. He hadn't even come to terms with _that_ , and now...

And now they're dead anyway.

They did it themselves. He can't even gather the courage to confront it anymore than that.

He barely manages to grab a hold of the wall before he's on the ground next to it, his jelly-like legs finally unable to support him any longer. They end up crushed awkwardly underneath him, where he feels they'll remain for some time. Pandora is left suddenly as the looking presence above him, trembling, mouth parted silently. There are matching tears coming down her own face, identical to his own.

She looks at him, directly in the eyes. Whatever she goes to say is lost in the sob that comes out instead.

He needs to get up and do something. He needs to fix this.

"They're gone," he says. "They're gone."

There's no fixing this, though.

How can you fix death?

* * *

 **Calix Belmont, 17  
Capitol Eastern Quadrant; Holmfirth District.**

* * *

Someone's shaking his shoulder.

His parents, theoretically speaking, should be gone. Work calling, and all that, like it does every single day of the year. Either it's Phoebe, and she's being particularly annoying, or she's let one of her friends in too early to bug him.

It's that, or someone's broken in. He's unwilling to confront that option yet.

"Idiot, wake up," Phoebe hisses. Oh good, it is her. Better his sister than some randomly petulant burglar. She doesn't let go of his shoulder though, practically rolling him back and forth across the bed until he's forced to crack his eyes open a sliver. She goes so far as to drag the pillow out from beneath his head and then pitch it on the floor, and no amount of stretching allows him to reach it.

" _What?_ " he groans, rolling over to face her. She's blocking most of the light from the window, which is nice, but it's not shadowed enough that he can't see the utter dread all over her face.

"Get up and come downstairs."

"Why?"

"There's something on the news."

"Okay, well," he starts, but she hurries from his room and leaves his door wide open, too, so there's no way he can go back to sleep. He hears her thump down the stairs and then the volume from the television rise, even from here.

Thirteen year olds are weird, you know. He knows all about that from being one and having the misfortune to experience it. Nine times out of ten his sister will just leave the television on as background noise while she does whatever it is that she's doing; since when does she actually watch it?

It's not until he meanders his way through his general morning routine that he realizes exactly what day it is. He's never been the most quick-thinking of guys; that's not really his job. He's still standing in the bathroom trying to blink himself awake when he realizes exactly what's going on today, what's supposed to happen. He spoke to Tarquin just last night - how could he not remember?

The clock in his room, when he quickly glances at it as he goes tearing by, reads 11:17.

Forty-three minutes _before._

Shit.

He manages to grab a hold of his phone too before he sprints and nearly trips down the stairs, pulling up Arden's number. He's shocked he doesn't have upwards of ten text messages from her by now. Of all the days to sleep too long and he chose today. Whatever Phoebe wants him to see can't be that important. It can wait until later. He has forty or so minutes to get downtown to the address Velia sent him yesterday, the spot where they're being taken.

There's nothing wrong with wanting to say goodbye, is there? Calix isn't even sure any of them have a chance at getting in, but like hell he's not going to try.

That's his best friend they're trying to kill, and a phone call wasn't good enough.

"Phoebs, I have to go!" he shouts down the hall, hurriedly shoving his feet into the first acceptable pair of shoes. Do they match with his pajamas? No. Does he care?

Also no. If he cared he wouldn't be marching down there in pajamas at all.

He dials Arden in the process of finding the keys, tearing through all the sets of them hanging next to the door until he finds the ring that he really ought to be keeping closer to him at all times. The phone, after several long seconds of ringing, goes to voicemail. He dials again, but gets the same result by the time he's finished lacing up his shoes.

"Calix," Phoebe says, peering into the hall. She's still got that horrifyingly distraught look on her face.

"I'll be back later, okay? Just try not to burn the house down while I'm gone, mom and dad will kill me."

"No— Cal, I need you to come with me, please," she begs, eyes watering. "Can you come with me?"

He stares at her. She foregoes waiting for an answer and grabs his hand, instead, dragging him around the couch and back into the living room. The television's volume has peaked and is blaring throughout the whole first floor, loud enough to wake the dead. He's surprised it didn't wake him up even all the way upstairs.

Phoebe's unsteady hand is still laced through his, knuckles steadily going white. She eventually shakes him again when he goes so long staring at it that he's missed the point of her dragging him in here entirely - the television. He shuffles backwards to perch on the end of the couch, expecting Phoebe to let go, but she drifts back with him and stays just as close.

It's a breaking news story, except the breaking news bit is written out all in capital letters and even with the urgency he doesn't think he's awake enough for that yet.

"What's going on?" he asks. The screen is cut down the middle; the left half is filled by a news anchor lady with annoyingly tall hair, and the right is a look at something live. He's having trouble telling exactly what. Most of the frame is filled up by the glassy surface of the lake, oddly undisturbed further out and churning up against the shore. There's a car being pulled from the water, sleek and all black. Water goes spilling from the bottom of it when it's finally pulled free.

There's a whole show of lights, flashing blue and red, but no noise. The only noise is the news anchor talking. All of the people milling around the area have to be creating a whole cacophony, but he can't hear any of it. Does he really want to?

Besides the police there are a few others, imposing figures in long, sterile-looking coats. One of them is wheeling a stretcher away from the water's edge, and the camera zooms out to follow it to a car parked alongside the road.

Phoebe squeezes his hand. "I don't get it," he says quietly. It looks _bad_ whatever it is, bad for something or someone.

"It's him," she answers.

"Who?"

She looks up at him, eyes nervous. "Tarquin."

He blinks. The stretcher collapses into itself as they load it into the back of the van, and the camera pans away to an identical stretcher, another interchangeable white cover over the whole thing. This one is flapping up at the edge, though, and someone hurriedly reaches over to pin it back down before Calix can get a good look at what's hiding beneath.

"What do you mean?"

"They found all five of them. Not in the same place. But they're all... they're all dead. That's what they're saying."

Phoebe's grip on his hand is still something fierce, but he turns his phone around again with the other and flicks the screen on. It reads 11:22 now, six minutes passed. It's still thirty-eight minutes away, though. They weren't supposed to go for another thirty-eight minutes.

His phone is still silent; neither Arden nor Velia have messaged him once. Why wouldn't they have messaged him? They were all in agreement to go. He's just a little behind, is all.

He scrolls away from Arden's number and back to the still unfamiliar one that he called back last night, bringing the phone up to his ear. There's a long moment of silence, and then it goes to voicemail. The woman suddenly speaking is unfamiliar, but Tarquin had to have gotten the phone from somewhere. That makes sense. Someone lent him the phone to call, and maybe now they've taken it back.

At the tail end of the voicemail she rattles off another number, and he types it in the second he can, unwilling to forget it. This time, in comparison, only takes seconds.

"Hello?"

"Who is this?" he asks. There's murmured conversation in the background of the call, an eerie echo of the broadcast in front of him. They're seeing it too.

"My name is Shoah Jensen," she says. Right, he heard her say that. "Who is this?"

He takes a deep breath. "Calix."

"Calix," she repeats. "Calix, right. Tarquin's friend."

She knows who he is - that's a good sign. It just has to be.

"Is it true?" he asks, hoping she can understand that too. It's a reminder of the conversation he had with Tarquin just last night, what feels like a lifetime ago. That's what hearing his voice felt like after going so long without it. He grew up on that voice, had it _literally_ every single day, and then it was just gone. He can still remember his parent's faces when they stopped by to drop off the birthday present that Tarquin had gotten for him, right on time.

She sounds uneasy even in her breath, this ultimately unfamiliar lady. He can practically _hear_ her deciding what to say, rehearsing the line over and over again.

"Calix," she says slowly. "I'm so sor—"

He hangs up. Phoebe looks at him again, eyes wider than before. She must not like what she sees there, because she pulls her hand from his and gets to her feet.

"I'm gonna go call mom," she says, tripping over herself to escape the living room.

He's still sitting there, frozen, when he hears her high-pitched, frantic voice start up in the kitchen. Phoebe glances around the corner at him and then disappears again, the phone clutched tight in her hand.

 _I don't believe any of it_. Because he doesn't.

 _But it's true._ That's what Tarquin said to him last night. _But it's true - what I did, that's all true._

And this? This... this is true too?

It can't be. It doesn't make any sense. They're down to thirty-three minutes now, but that's still enough time. That's enough time for anyone even racing against death. Unless he's already gotten there. Tarquin never, ever lied to him, and when he was talking about tomorrow last night he didn't mean it in a needle in the arm type of way. He meant to say he was taking control of his own life. His life, and his death.

And he told him not to forget it.

But he's dead, isn't he? That's what everyone's telling Calix now. Phoebe believes it, and Shoah Jensen believes it, and the whole country is being told it...

He never got a text because there wasn't a point. There was no person to say goodbye to.

By that point, Tarquin was already gone.

* * *

 **Dr. Shoah Jensen, 28**  
 **On-Site Psychotherapeutic Counselor, Rose Point Estate**

* * *

She doesn't let go of the phone for a very long time.

She _can_ , but she won't. It's a shocking thing to discover that your hand hasn't actually fused to it after holding on for so long, but he can't bring herself to tuck it away. After several minutes of waiting, she dials back the number, and gets no response.

She didn't expect to.

The phone ends up in her lap. For some reason she can't be tempted enough to put it away for the day and ignore the numerous calls that are no doubt going to spill from the other end. It feels like a smart thing to tether herself to, a line of communication that no one else clearly had. Someone missed something somewhere, messed it all up.

And this is the result they've ended up with.

Dr. Arranmore had excused himself some twenty minutes ago now after shouting had broken out in the hall outside the sitting room; whatever it was couldn't get her to move. She was capable of intervening, but she didn't. With his absence on the opposite chair still starkly obvious she can't help but wonder what went wrong, if the torrent of emotions finally overcame someone and caused them to snap.

Every single one of the stations on the projection between them is playing a variation of the same thing. It's a mixed bag of reporters and anchors and camera people, not one of whom actually looks appropriately upset.

Shoah has no right to be, and she's fully aware of that. She didn't really know those kids, but she recognized the pain in their eyes. She's seen it a dozen times over in her life; Four's full of people like that. Mostly kids, too young to be able to properly handle it, victors and ex-trainees who didn't quite make it, who did the awful things and got no glory.

Maybe taking your own life is the glory in all of this.

She waits patiently for a few more minutes, but Dr. Arranmore doesn't return. He's been her company this morning since hell opened up; no one else has seemingly had the time. She flicks through a few different channels, searching for something different, but nothing presents itself. It's just more of the facts, the awful visuals. None of the reasoning.

They were suffering. She knew that the second she saw them. Faking it was one thing - faking it _well_ was a ball game most people weren't thoroughly trained for. She had witnessed her sister do it over and over again and fail each time.

Shoah had only agreed to come here because she thought she was help. That was her job description, after all.

It was as the old cliché went - you couldn't help someone that didn't want to be helped. You couldn't save someone that didn't want to be saved, either.

You definitely couldn't save people who were slated for execution.

Shoah stands up to leave, but is greeted by the face of Kerensa Quinn lurking in the door as she does so, and her feet falter into an awkward stop. She's not nearly as threatening outwardly as everyone makes her out to be, but she has the face of a devil. She'd do anything to anyone and wouldn't bat an eye. It doesn't feel very good to be the only one in the room with her.

"I'm sorry," she starts. "If you need the room—"

"Quite the contrary, actually. I was hoping to speak with you."

She wills all of the composure she possesses into one central spot. "Would you like to sit then?"

All for show, she sits back down in her chair and smiles, too. Kerensa takes the one opposite and somehow manages to fill it more than Dr. Arranmore did, a massive feat for someone of her stature. It almost doesn't look possible. With her legs crossed and her hands folded primly over-top of them, she looks like the most unassuming person in the world.

Kerensa turns to watch the screen, leaving Shoah to stare at her uneasily. Her eyes flick over the current broadcast with a flat, uninterested look.

"You've seen it, I assume?" she asks. Kerensa hums.

"Many times. And you?"

"Likewise."

"It's such a tragedy, don't you think?"

"I believe that any loss of life, especially young life, is a tragedy." Shoah wasn't there for the final court proceedings, but it's that which floated around afterwards. Judge Sykora said almost those exact words and then chose to punish them anyway. He threw away the key on their lives. Their deaths _now_ are on so many people that she can't even begin to write the list herself.

"I know you spoke with them," Kerensa says. "Were there warning signs?"

"Warning signs?" she asks. "To suicidal tendencies? Less warning signs and more obvious beacon, dare I say."

"I was under the impression that they had desire to live."

"From experience most people who share those thoughts don't _want_ to die - they see it as the only option, and they take it. Two of them didn't jump off a bridge today because they wanted to; they saw it as their only option. And I can guarantee you that even if they regretted it before they hit the water they still knew in the back of their minds that regret was futile. You know the time, I'm sure. They would have been dead by now anyway."

It's hard to tell which way is worse. Surely a quiet, quick needle in the arm would be better - but who's to say a gunshot wound to the head isn't just as quick? Even quicker, in fact?

"You're sad to see them gone," Kerensa observes.

"I think most people are," she wagers. "Even the people who wanted them punished would have rather seen them do time than see them dead at their own hands. No one wants that."

"Except them."

"Sorry to interrupt."

She turns, peering around the edge of the chair, and breathes a silent relief at the sight of Evander having taken his mother's place in the doorway. Where Kerensa looked tall and regal he's somehow managed to make himself look very small; she can tell just at a glance that he's been crying recently, and there's a roll of bandaging wrapped around the knuckles of his right hand, faintly pink at the edges. She can only hope that the earlier commotion was because he went after something, namely a wall, and not an unfortunate someone.

"Could I talk to you?" he asks, and she winces at the sound of his voice. Kerensa unfolds her legs and makes to stand up, but he gestures at Shoah instead.

She blinks and gets to her feet, leaving Kerensa to settle back down in the chair. She hopes she didn't look too eager.

Before she goes, she makes sure to gather the last of her fortitude, and turns to look Kerensa in the eye. "If you'll excuse me. And it's like I said, I'll never believe that this is what they wanted."

It's not what Shoah wanted either. She would have wished for any other outcome.

Evander is waiting for her out in the hall, shifting from foot to foot. He glances up at her quickly when she hesitates in front of him, but just as quickly goes back to staring at the floor. He looks like he's been through the ringer in just a few short hours, and is picking at the bandages around his knuckles with a ragged fingernail, trying to pull up the edge.

"How's the other guy look?" she asks.

"Hole in the wall," he mumbles, and she nods. That's better than what she thought. "I know... I know everything's not okay, but can I do something? Anything?"

"I don't know," he answers. "Pandora left, and Crynn went with her. I think they went to talk to someone. I didn't want to speak to my mother right now, and I didn't know where anyone else was."

Oh, he came looking for her on purpose. He _wanted_ to. That's sort of what people do with her job description; they gravitate. Shoah knows in her gut that's not the entire reason but it's not the place for that, and certainly not the time. She had him pegged as someone who might be slightly over-emotional just from spending some time with him, but seeing it makes her wish she had never thought it. She doesn't want this for him.

"Can I hug you?" she asks, and he gnaws at his lip, still staring at the ground. Eventually he nods, and she wastes no time in stepping forward to wrap her arms around him. He's struggling to take in even breaths, chest rising and falling unevenly. Occasionally she'll hear a little gasp like he's really and truly failing, but she doesn't think he's crying anymore. There's no telling if that's a good thing.

They didn't deserve this. Not any of the five of them, or the people who fought for them. Even when she knew it was inevitable she hoped for a different outcome, but believing in that was like clinging to the possibility of a neverland. Like clinging to something that wasn't actually real and that never would be.

She closes her eyes, and wishes for something else. For him. For all of them.

That's all she can do.

* * *

 **Crynn Sylvaine, 27  
Criminal Law Defense Attorney; District Eleven**

* * *

He doesn't much like the number three.

Three dead sisters, so he assumes. Three years between the avoxing and his mother's death. Three months after meeting Pandora in which he finally gathered the courage to actually speak to her.

That had been embarrassing.

Three days pass in painstaking slowness. He feels as if he's awake for every single second, forced to watch the undeniable horror of it all. It never stops.

He's not on the fringe, is the worst part. He's just enough on the inside that he feels all of it, like he's been stuck at the epicenter of a disaster zone long after everyone should have been rescued from it. They had storms in Eleven, sometimes. Bad ones that kept people locked up in their houses for days. Right now felt like the storm had ended but the house had been washed away with it, and that there was nothing left.

The last he saw Pandora she was leaving for something - funeral arrangements, Evander had later told him. She's been missing so often that every little thing can't possibly be about the five of them. It feels more and more like she's avoiding him. He's seen her cry before, seen her completely break down, so he doesn't know why.

He sees her in nothing more than fleeting moments and when they go to sleep at night, though she says little then too. Sometimes _good-night_ and sometimes _I love you_. Sometimes neither, or sometimes both.

It's not much, and it's driving him insane.

He gives her those three days, though. He understands everything of the grieving process and leaves her to it.

He finally catches her though not long after she gets back - she's brought one of the computers down from the main house, carried all the way down the stone path, and has set it up in the cottage, tucked away in the nook she calls an office. He raps on the door-frame to get her attention, hunched over the computer with an almost permanent slouch to her shoulders.

She smiles when she sees him, but the look hurts him a bit. She looks borderline unhealthy, gaunt and hollow-eyed. The smile travels no further than her mouth. And it's not just her, it's the baby too.

She'll probably end up dead too if she keeps up like this.

She stands up before he can cross the room, much to his surprise, and hugs him before he can even raise his arms. His blinks in surprise as she winds her arms around his middle, crushingly tight.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles into his shirt. Even her hair's a bit of a mess, but he hugs her back and presses a kiss to the top of her head anyway; it doesn't appear she's in the mood to let go of him so soon, so there's no signing anything back. He wouldn't get very far anyway, he doesn't think. He can tell her not to apologize all he wants, but she still will. They're the same in that regard.

He steps back, finally, and holds her an arm length away. This time she doesn't try to smile.

"When's the last time you ate something?" he signs.

"I had some yogurt before I left this morning."

At least six hours ago, now. He only has one job, really, and that's to keep an eye on her, to make sure she's functioning. It's on him to take care of her.

"I'll make you something, if you want to get back to that." He gestures back at the computer and heads for the kitchen before she can say otherwise, though he thinks he hears a muted call of his name as he heads down the hall. He expects her to stay that way as he starts pulling things from the kitchen cupboards, but by the time he puts a pan on the stove to warm she's followed him into the kitchen. There are eyes on the back of his head for the full minute it takes him to wrangle everything together, but Pandora eventually pulls herself up onto the counter next to him and makes a home there.

And that's just how they do things. It feels like old times. It's complete and utter silence while he throws something together, punctuated by her occasionally shifting over to lean her head against his when he's not particularly busy, and then scooting away again when he is.

He hands her a finished plate, one of the more lackluster sandwiches he's ever put together, but at least it's warm.

Pandora smiles, and it reaches her eyes this time. "You're lovely, you know that? I should tell you that more often."

"I don't see how you could tell me that more than you already do."

She takes a bite of her sandwich. "Because it's true."

He nods. Crynn likes to think he's a well and truly good person, but nothing is black and white like that. He knows all about the body they dumped outside in the creek. He knows what they did to Eriska. What _she_ did.

It doesn't make him love her any less.

Pandora puts the sandwich down and the plate along with it, giving him a thoughtful look. She waggles her hand about until he's forced to take it.

"Come with me?" she asks, and he nods again. She hops off the counter and pulls him back towards the computer; he just manages to snag the plate as she drags him away. He's going to make her eat come hell or high water.

He drops the plate down in front of her when she sits down, but she pays it no mind. She goes back to fiddling about on the computer and lets go of his hand in the process; Crynn perches on the edge of the desk and lets her get to it. He learned the hard way long ago that trying to get her stop when she was set on something was both useless and futile.

"Okay," she says. "We're gonna do this, and then I'm going to eat. And I need you to get Evander once we're done. But can you promise that you won't hate me?"

"What?" he asks, but she looks very serious. As if he ever could. Why would he start now?

He'd go the inappropriate look and say the look on her face is akin to that of a situation where someone just unfortunately died, but well. Someone did, so he can't say that. And she won't stop looking at him like that either.

"Never," he answers, and she seems satisfied with that. She keys in a number onto the phone sitting between them and then puts it face up on the desk, pressing the speaker button. He doesn't recognize the number she entered, and there's no name attached to it. It rings for a while, so long in fact that it feels like she's pulling some sort of prank on him. What else could she possibly doing?

"Hello?"

It's not a voice he immediately recognizes, nothing intimately familiar. There's s _omething_ itching in the back of his mind that says he knows it, but he can't place it. It feels more like a memory than anything else, something almost faded but not quite.

Like he didn't forget it for a reason.

"Hi," Pandora answers, looking up at him. She expects him to recognize the voice, then? Should he?

A sigh. "I vividly remember telling you not to call this number."

"I'm sorry," she responds, but it's different than the way she said it to him not long ago. This one doesn't sound all the way apologetic. "I just need to know. Do you have them?"

 _Them_. Who is them, exactly? Crynn is already hyper-focused on sifting through the practical files in his brain searching for the voice, or even a hint to lead him to it. There's been no response from the other end of the line, and by the second he can see the lines of Pandora's shoulders getting more tense. It's not good for her, this worry. It's not good for any of them.

He knows that voice. Why does he know it?

"Do you have them?" Pandora repeats. _Them_. There's no other them that he can think of, not unless...

Pandora didn't leave to make funeral arrangements this morning, he knows suddenly.

She looks up at him. His eyes must be wide as saucers as he processes that alone, followed by hearing the little huffed laugh that comes through from the other end. It's the laugh that finally produces the image, the image to a person, the person to a name.

A name to a voice.

"Oh, come on," Luca Arker says. "Was there ever really any doubt?"

* * *

To everyone who I told there was only going to be two epilogues, as is my standard, I love you! Two epilogues is so last year, am I right?

Third and final coming next week.

Until next time.


	63. Twisted

Epilogue, Part Three: ?

* * *

Life and death was funny, you see.

It tended to work in the same way for everyone. You lived for however long you were given, and then you died. Some got a hundred years, and some got fifty. Some got almost none at all - misfortune, people would say. Unfortunate tragedy, that loss of human life.

And some of them, the truly unlucky bastards, died in the Hunger Games.

Not them, though.

And lady luck would have it, though it really wasn't luck at all, that they hadn't died after it either.

It was funny how that worked, wasn't it?

You see, some people chose life, but there were some that chose death. They, in a twisted sort of fashion, had chosen both. They were good at that. Not many people really were, but the handful that had the capabilities were out there, somewhere, and it was in that somewhere that they fit. It was in that somewhere where safety existed, the only place left for them.

Tarquin knew Pandora Quinn was smart the second he met her, but he never knew how quite smart. And he didn't think, for one, that she was capable of deception. It turns out that death faking, though, was less deception and more carefully thought out planning. Neither of those two things had been a thought in his mind when he had done it himself down in the mines - it had just been survival. Then again, wasn't that what had been on her mind, too? Them surviving? That's all she had wanted.

Planning got you really far when you knew what you were doing. To be honest, he didn't feel like he did, most times. But she was different.

It involving having many things, more than he could. Timing and people and _money_ , lots of money. A few eyewitnesses in the proper spots to corroborate the story. Bodies that no one would recognize or miss. A medical examiner in your back pocket. Forged death certificates and autopsy reports.

She was smart, except smart didn't feel like a strong enough word.

So he was dead, technically. Legally. Only the people around him now and Pandora knew, though he suspected Evander and Crynn would soon enough.

It was just too risky to let people know in the moment - they had learned that the hard way. Too many people knowing each and every little detail led to bad things. Bad things led to people dying.

People like him. Like he said, he was dead now.

He didn't feel dead, though. He felt more alive than ever as he hauled himself over the fence at the city's eastern boundary and then pulled Ria over after him. Emmi was waiting for them at the furthest edge of the rail-yard from the main station, perched on one of the empty cars, swinging her legs back and forth. She socks him in the shoulder the second he gets close.

"How was the water?" she asks.

"Cold." He looks her over, but she's looking more at the ground than she is him. "Good?"

Emmi nods, though it's not convincing. She's not all the way okay, but she knows that's fine. She doesn't have to be right now.

They have time to fix that, now.

"They haven't shown up yet?" Tarquin asks.

"Not yet."

"Icarus probably made them both fall off for real," Ria says, a hint of humor to her voice that Emmi very rarely hears. She snorts. It's sort of a funny, but awful thing to imagine. If only it was less likely.

They do show though, much to Emmi's surprising care. Soran sticks his head around the rail car and tries to scare them like he's taking the job of being dead and probably a ghost a little too seriously. She nearly smacks him upside the head. All of them in varying degrees still look as if they want to go for real, but they lost that option now. No one is going to let anyone else do it.

They've been given specific instructions, and Emmi feels responsible for remembering them. It's a specific time and railway line, one number of a hundred marked on each car in a line fifty long. It takes nearly as long as to find it as it did to get here in the first place, but with much ambling along and questioning anything is possible, even for them.

Ria's the one to find it, unsurprisingly. Skulking around in the dark just fits her too well. It's the forty-third car in the entire line, empty for some unknown reason. There's a rusted over door at the back platform that pulls open with a minute of stubborn pulling.

Emmi's really not the questioning type, is her problem. She accepts things or she doesn't, and she just has to accept this. She knows where they're supposed to get off and the handful of other places where it's safe to do so, but not truly _where_ any of them are. Pandora is probably about to send them to middle of nowhere, Alaska and none of them would be any the wiser.

She looks around. The loading platform is far, far away in the distance, a cluster of lights and a few moving bodies.

She prods at Tarquin's shoulder. "In."

He obeys, looking none too happy about being the first to step into the darkness. There's nothing there, she wants to tell him, but there's no use. People only believe things on their own time.

And Emmi, for one, will believe they're safe when they actually _are_.

She herds all of them into the blackness of the empty train car and then inches the door shut behind them. The only light is coming from the window at the top of it, which is so small you could barely fit an arm out. Emmi can't see two feet in front of her nose, let alone anyone else.

"This is going to be a fun however many hours," Soran says, sounding particularly joyful. She clutches the bag tighter against her chest, conveniently the only thing they have left to their names besides each other and the clothes on their backs. Some food and water, an emergency phone.

The gun, but she wasn't supposed to have kept that.

"I'm gonna die in here," Icarus announces, and she shuffles over until she bumps into the vaguely him sized shape in the middle of the car. He squawks not unlike a bird, flapping his arms until he's far enough away from her. It does wonders to ease the sky high dose of nerves that are living inside her.

"You'll be fine."

"I won't," he announces. If he's not fine chances are no one else will be, but he hasn't ventured down that road just yet. Icarus inches his way back over until he nudges into Soran's back, and then grabs a hold of his arm.

"What, you afraid the boogeyman is going to get you in here?" Soran asks, amused.

"Absolutely terrified."

"Pretty sure you're holding onto the only boogeyman in here," Ria points out. It's so quiet that he doesn't think anyone else in the car was intended to hear, but the silence practically allows it to bounce of all four walls and echo around. Soran _laughs_ like that's the most delightful thing he's ever heard - Icarus can both hear it and feel it where he's holding onto him.

"Your newfound shady side is my favorite," Emmi tells her.

"My what?"

"Don't question it."

That's how they stand until the whole train lurches a bit; he digs his nails into Soran's arm even though he feels quite steady in comparison. Soon the train itself becomes so loud that he can barely hear himself think, and surely wouldn't be able to hear anyone else. The whole thing is rocking about like its about to tip off the tracks, and Soran drags him down to the floor before anyone can do the same.

And that really is how it goes. The hours are uncountable. It's them and the cold, filthy ground of the train car and almost complete darkness. Even when the sun rises and transforms into day the light is still only able to seep in through the barest cracks, creating little shadows and slivers of daylight where nothing else exists.

He, for the most part, just lays nearly unmoving and lets himself remain that way, eating when something is passed his way and hopping off for a few minute break when the train stops every few hours. Sometimes, _often_ times, he's tempted to sit down on the ground outside the train and just not get back on. It's a multitude of destinations - forests and mountains and flat, grassy lands with water in the distance. Chances are he'd die out there in the wilderness with nothing to save him, but you never know. He's technically survived worse.

He doesn't want to have to just survive, anymore. Ideally he'd like to actually live, which is what gets him crawling back into the train after every stop, staying close to the tracks to avoid being seen. Of course he still ends up just lying down most of the time, letting his head and every other part of his body jerk and bump up with the rhythm of the train.

He sleeps, once in a while. Not much. His mind is stuck warring between what they left and where they're going - they don't even really know where they're going, though.

It's just a distant thought, even though they're getting closer. Emmi is marking down each stop, counting down to the last one.

Soran sits down next to him, sometimes, and right now. "Deep in thought, are we?"

Icarus shrugs. If he is deep in thought he's sure as shit not getting anywhere with them.

"Do you think it worked?" he asks. "Do you think people actually believe we're dead? They could be looking for us right now."

"They're not."

"How do you know?"

"Because people who jump off bridges typically don't get looked for in places beyond the water below."

They didn't jump, though. Maybe they should have.

"Ease up," Soran says. "We're good remember?"

Soran actually believes that when he never really has before. When in his right mind, if he even has one, has he ever been good? Sure, they're headed off to some undisclosed location and are most likely going to be facing an actual, literal boogeyman, but who cares? What's worse than what they've already been through?

He shuffles down onto his back next to Icarus, pinning his arm to the floor. "We're fine."

"I certainly hope so," Emmi interrupts, a comment less snide than usual. "It ought to be the next one. Two hours, give or take?"

Icarus rolls over onto his stomach, grumbling something before it's muffled by the floor. He tugs his arm out from where it's pinned by Soran's side, hugging it against chest. If Soran had to make an educated guess he's probably willing himself to die on the floor in the next two hours.

That's how they stay for the majority of the next two hours. One of them keeps moving, inevitably, trying to get comfortable in a situation that won't allow it. Tarquin starts pacing with about a half hour left, and Soran begins trying to trip him at about twenty, although is forced to stop once Ria gets to her feet. He thinks he'd feel too bad if he accidentally sent her flying onto her own face.

It's not long before he feels the slowing motion of the train and all of the noises associated with it, high-pitched and deafening to a fault. It always takes a few minutes to stop all the way, but this time feels even longer. He sits there not so patiently while it does, anxiously tapping his foot on the ground. It's so loud otherwise he doesn't think anyone either hears or notices it. He'd be getting chewed out by now if someone had.

Emmi pokes her head out the door. He nearly bowls her over in her quest to get a look outside as well.

"Didn't she say to look for a road?"

"Yeah," he answers.

"If that's the road, we might be fucked," she says, pointing to a break in the trees. It looks more like a footpath than a road, hardly big enough to be the latter at all. The dirt disappears into the trees on either side, the undergrowth encroaching at the edges. The trees beyond it get darker and darker until the path winds away and disappears.

"Well, time to find out," he says, though he waits for her to step out and hop into the dirt below the platform in favor of just shoving her and hoping for the best. It's an evolution at its finest.

He edges off the tracks after her and onto the beginning of the road. There are signs of life, at least, faded tire tracks worn into the dirt, but it ends five feet before the tracks and goes nowhere at all.

If this really is where they're supposed to be they must come this way regularly. For supplies, maybe, if that's what the trains headed this way to do. It's certainly not fast enough to be transporting anything fanatical. He walks all the way to the bend far into the trees, and after that they open up a bit, the road twisting through a clearing before it disappears into the hills. He still has no idea where they are.

There's a car, though, tucked away at the side of the road. It's nearly lost in the foliage. There's someone behind the wheel, too, just close enough that Soran can make out every detail.

Icarus grabs a handful of his shirt between his shoulders and yanks at him so hard he nearly falls over backwards. "Do you think he's going to kill us?"

"Why would he kill us?"

"Well, didn't he kill a decently large handful of Capitol people back in the day?" Tarquin asks. They all look in various degrees or stages of vaguely sick.

"Didn't _we_ do that too?" he asks. Emmi nods thoughtfully.

The numbers don't add up into anything good on either side. If Soran really cared about how many people any of them have killed then he wouldn't be doing this at all. If anything it's just going to help them blend in better at their intended destination; that's how he's choosing to think about this.

Blending in or not, he doesn't think getting along with Luca Arker of all people is just a thing that happens.

He rolls down the window all the way until he can lean out, slightly. Both him and Emmi have identical smiles on their faces when he does so, though he suspects they're _both_ more uneasy than either of them would care to admit. Ria seems to have little issue with admitting anything; Soran feels her shuffle behind him without so much as a word until she's out of sight entirely.

He doesn't blame her, really. He just doesn't have the same option.

"You going to stand there all day, or are you going to get in the car?" Luca asks. Ria leans around him to get a better looking, appraising both him and the car as if the two sitting there like that is anything inherently dangerous. For all she knows it is.

While getting braver by the day, she for one would be perfectly content to stand there all day like Luca suggested.

He's helping them, though, or at least trying to. He wouldn't be here if he wasn't.

They stand there so long that he even reaches over to kick one of the adjacent doors open, eyebrows raised expectantly. It's not the least forthcoming she's ever seen someone act; she's not one to talk, anyway.

"You guys owe me one," Emmi hisses, starting for the kicked open door. She doesn't look like she really wants to when she swings herself into the passenger seat, leaving the four of them to cram into the bench along the back. At least Tarquin is kind enough to allow her to be the last one in; she's still shoved between him and the door, but she keeps two fingers looped over the handle just in case.

She's also conveniently right behind Luca's seat.

"To be fair," Luca starts. "All five of you have killed someone more recently than I have. So if anyone has a good reason to run screaming from this car, it's me."

"You could kill all five of us in about ten seconds," Soran points out.

"Less," Luca insists. "But I won't. Don't make me regret that."

He starts the car and pulls around the opposite way onto the road. Ria forces herself to release the door handle and starts to breathe again, letting some of the tension in her chest go free. Luca's not going to hurt them; he has no reason to. He wouldn't go to all of this trouble for no reason.

She busies herself with looking out the window just as they pass through the rest of the clearing into the hills beyond. It's a very pretty place, wherever it is. Much more green and natural than anything she's ever been given the privilege to step into. It's getting dark all over again but there's enough light still for her to make out just how beautiful it really is.

"So where are we going?" Emmi asks.

"You'll see in about ten minutes."

"East coast?"

"As close as you can get."

"And how many people there are in total agreement that they're not going to fuck us over in the next few years?" Icarus questions.

"You ask a lot of questions."

"Just curious."

"All several hundred of them. Listen, if we didn't think we were capable of keeping you here and protecting you then we wouldn't be doing it in the first place. Of those several hundred most of them have been through enough in their lifetime that they don't want or need anything else awful happening, myself included. Just trust in that, if not in me directly."

Ria wants that level of trust. She's never had it before. It would be nice to have it and accept it and cherish it in a way that she thinks she deserves. It's about time they all had something like that in their lives.

"Tomorrow morning we'll sort this all out," Luca says. "The short notice didn't allow much. It might be tough for a few weeks but by then we'll have more housing sorted out, proper arrangements, all that. But we'll take care of it. You might just have to get used to having little to no personal space for a bit."

"Already used to that," Soran says, and Icarus throws an elbow at his side that she ends up feeling all the way at the other end of the bench.

Ria's gotten used to it too - it's still in no way her favorite thing to deal with, but her options are deal with it or go back to the Capitol and throw herself into the lake for good.

Like Tarquin said, it was cold. She doesn't want to.

The hills open up a bit, and in the distance over the trees Ria sees a flicker of more of it, off in the distance. Lights, too, dim in the setting sun. She can imagine how bright they'd be in the proper dark, a little beacon tucked away among the trees and coast. It's just like he said, room for enough people that it was home but small enough that it was safe. That it was everything you would need.

"Well, home sweet home," Luca says. "Hopefully."

That's all she wants.

There's a sign along the side of the road, standing strong. A number is at the bottom, flashing by too fast for her to make out, but she can see it in practicality. A couple hundred, just like Luca said.

She saw the name, though, dead center. _FORTUNA_.

"Well, it's no Death Valley, but I think it'll do," Tarquin murmurs.

Ria smiles. It will. She believes that.

And maybe, like its name suggests, it will give them what they've needed for a long time now.

* * *

Tarquin is awoken by a suspiciously loud bang, a series of slightly quieter thumps, and an entire choir's worth of muffled swears.

He lies very still on the couch and counts to ten, staring at the ceiling. Everybody else, it appears, hasn't been disturbed by any of this. It was just after dark when Luca finally left them with the sidenote that he was just down the street _in case of emergency_ , which had done wonders for Tarquin's already beyond fucked sleeping schedule. It was light now. Someone was here. Is Luca back already, then?

Tarquin allows himself to look over the edge of the couch in time for something strangely human shaped, yet very small, to go shooting down the hall and into what he remembers is the bathroom for no apparent reason at all.

He dares to peer over-top of the cushions. The front door is wide open and against the back wall - that must have been what he heard. Someone is standing just inside, holding yet another small human being about the same size as the other in one arm and balancing an oversized bag in the crook of the second.

Tarquin blinks. Blair smiles. "Hello. Can you either take one of these from me or go get him out of the bathroom before he destroys it?"

He sort of awkwardly slithers off the couch and stumbles half-asleep down the hall rather than approach the door, which is a terrifying prospect when he can barely think straight. Inside the bathroom he gets a curious look from the apparent two year old that's invaded it, on his tip toes and apparently going for anything on the counter that he can reach.

"Hi," he says. "Can you come with me?"

He gets a look for that, one that feels like _absolutely the fuck not_ in toddler speak. Tarquin decides to bite the bullet and scoop him up off the floor before he can dig his hole any deeper. He likes kids, don't get him wrong, he's just never had any experience in dealing with them. He certainly doesn't know what to do when this one starts squirming the second Tarquin traps him in his arms.

When he turns to the front room Blair has wrangled the bag onto the kitchen counter and the other child into one of the kitchen chairs, but he appears to be sitting there obediently unlike the one Tarquin's just barely got a hold on. They're not identical, but certainly similar enough that they have to be twins. Suddenly he feels even better for not dropping what appears to be one of Blair's actual children facedown in the hallway.

"I come bearing food," Blair says. "Don't know why the fuck anyone left me in charge of this, but here we are."

"So this is where you all live?"

"What gave you that impression?"

Why is Tarquin the only one awake for this? He's not sure he's equipped to handle anything at this level, not with a squirming child in his arms on top of it. He reaches over the other couch and waves his hand about, hitting whoever's down there, and a second later deposits the kid on top of them. He's not sure who between them successfully grabs onto him first, but he hears Soran start to swear the same way Blair did, so he's assuming it was him.

Nothing looks wrong with it. Blair looks like this is just every-day, and the toddler at the table is munching away at whatever's been given to him in otherwise silence. Sure, the one Soran's now trying to wrangle may have to be pinned to the couch to avoid watching him face-plant off the couch and into the coffee table, but that's life.

Blair turns around. "Ezra, don't make me come over there," he says, but the assumed Ezra continues successfully beating up on whatever part of Soran he can reach.

And Blair doesn't move, either. He looks a little tired, maybe, but who isn't these days?

He looks happy most of all, and Tarquin could use some of that.

He's ready for it now.

—

It's actually nice out for once.

Emmi can't remember the last time it was actually nice back in the Capitol save for maybe the last day they were there, which wasn't a nice day at all. So there's that.

Here it's actually sunny, and there are a few puffy white clouds drifting across the sky. There are actual trees and grass just about everywhere, and the air smells clean unlike the smog-infested skies of the city. It's just this put-together, almost quaint little town surrounded by what feels like an actual personification of peace.

It's a weird thing to experience firsthand.

She heads out on her own for the first time when she finally sees it fit to leave everyone else alone, which is the most terrifying part. She won't be surprised to return to a burnt-out shell of a house. There aren't many people out just yet, but there are supposedly only a few hundred anyway. Everyone here probably knows each other, a handful of citizens combined with victors and survivors and ultimately, a ton of legitimate murderers.

Well, at least she fits in.

There's nowhere to really go - she wasn't given any directions beyond Blair telling her that if she wandered too far into the woods off a path he wasn't coming to look for her. Tarquin said he would, though. Little victories.

There is someone following her, but Emmi's not concerned. The girl can't be any older than ten at the very most, and she's not sticking too close. Probably just nosy. Everyone's going to be.

She doesn't like the crawling of her skin, though, so she stops and turns around. The girl doesn't even falter, giving her a bright smile that seems to match the very energy of everything around her.

"Hi," she chirps. "You're Emmi, right?"

Oh, this kid's definitely got a murderer in the family if she knows who Emmi is and has zero fear in regards to following her around.

"Sure am," she answers. "And who are you?"

"Ivy. Your hair's cool. I've never met anyone with pink hair."

Says the kid with hair so ginger it ought to hurt someone's eyes. "Do your parents know what you're doing, Ivy?"

"Yeah. He doesn't care usually so long as I stay on the roads and come back when he tells me to. He also told me not to bug you but I'm kinda bad at that."

Emmi smiles. Nosy she is, but self-awareness is a gift too. It's one that's becoming more and more valuable these days. Emmi waits, but Ivy stays put, smiling like she's got the sun trapped inside her. She had full intentions to do this alone; she's been working at being by herself, lately. It's good for her.

But she doesn't always have to be.

"Well, let's go, then," she invites. "Someone has to show me around."

Ivy beams. Maybe being alone isn't all it's cracked up to be.

—

"This is so fucking weird," Icarus decides.

"Tell me something I haven't already heard you say a half dozen times today already," Soran says, rolling over. He's apparently decided the barren floor is more comfortable than the couch and its crammed contents, because he's abandoned Icarus and taken the pillow along for the ride. An absolute fucking betrayal, if you ask him.

He could say so many things, but he's stuck on today. Everything about it was just that: weird. All the people and the fucking nine just _live_ out here like nothing ever happened, and so does the Prometheus group. And it's all just fine. No one ever dies of anything but old age, and even that's rare out here with so few people. Everyone seems happy. Beyond happy, really.

Could that be a thing for them?

Everyone else seems to think so, because everyone but the two of them are out cold again for the night, easy as pie. Tarquin's the only one actually down here since they forced Emmi and Ria to sleep in the lone bed upstairs for the night, but he's buried under two blankets and barely visible.

It's nice. They're working on more houses and settling them in and no one looks at him like he's some crazed murdering psychopath. They could all kill him ten times over, he assumes, so he's not worried about that.

He drops his arm off the couch. "Get back up here."

"There is not near enough room. If you want me you're coming down here."

He sure is. Icarus grabs the last of the blankets and eases himself down on the floor, and then inchworms his way over.

Soran rolls over. "I didn't think you actually would."

"You should've."

Soran hums in agreement. Of all things, that should be predictable now. He was always going to come down here no matter what, scoot all the way over, and leach out all the warmth and closeness that he could possibly get. At least now Soran accepts it and no longer looks disgruntled at the fact.

Everyone here is good like Soran says _they_ are. They're older, and a lot of them have kids, and they're just good. He may not know what he wants in the future, and it may be uncertain with everything that's going on, but he wants something. Maybe not all of it, but some of it.

He has to start somewhere.

"You really wanna know something I haven't said to you at all today?" he asks, leaning into his side.

"Go for it."

"There has to be something wrong with me—"

"There is."

"Shut up," he insists, poking him in the side. "I wasn't finished. There's _definitely_ something wrong with me, and you know why? I'm pretty sure I'm in love with you."

He has to drag it out of his throat in such a way that it doesn't come out stilted, in pieces, and gets utter silence as a response. He expected that. He's not sure if the expectancy is comforting, or if he wants to throw up.

He sits up, propping his chin on the flat of Soran's shoulder. He's staring at the ceiling, not even blinking.

"You're totally right," Soran says slowly. "There is something wrong with you."

"Shut up," he repeats. "I'm serious, okay? I am. And I'm not expecting anything back, either. Just so you know. You don't have to say anything. I don't care."

"You care."

"I do," he says quietly. "But it's fine, hey? For right now, like you said, we're good."

And strangely enough, he is. Where did that part of him go, the one that obsessively craved validation and approval? Sure, he still has very little desire to let go of him, ever, but he can. He can and he doesn't feel bad when he does.

Soran turns to look at him. There's something going on in that brain there, but Icarus can't tell what it is for the life of him. He can't tell if Soran's about to say it back or if he's about to say something stupid, or maybe him saying it back _would_ be stupid. Whatever it is, it's causing him some sort of mental trauma the longer he thinks about it. Icarus can't even make an educated guess as to what's causing that.

He shifts, getting comfortable as comfortable can be on the damn floor, leans in to kiss him quickly, and then puts his head back on his shoulder. "Night."

Soran sighs. He sounds more troubled than Icarus would like, but he's learned not to push. "Night," he responds, but he curls his entire arm around Icarus' back and lets it rest there. It feels okay. He thinks it is.

And as long as it is, he can sleep easy.

—

Much as he thinks he loathes it, Soran is used to the insane hustle and bustle of things.

It's all the same - the Academy and the streets and the housing in One all bordered on homes for the clinically insane, among everything else. It's because of that that he isn't flinching now. People are constantly in and out of the house, adults and children alike, over the next few days. There are several children here right now, in fact. The oldest at three, Rina, is attempting and failing to be of any help in the kitchen to Dimara, who looks as if she's doing more of stepping over her own child than any actual work. Maybe that is work.

The other one, her younger sister, is supposedly napping. Soran's more inclined to believe she's wrecking something upstairs while they can't tell, but to each their own.

He's almost certain there's another one round here somewhere too, one of the Carnell's. Something about Nadir needing a free hand which resulted in her being able to keep only one child on hand.

It's about average levels of quiet in here despite the bustle, so he's almost certain it's not Ezra. As if on cue Matteo appears between his chair and Icarus', staring up at the crackers he's been trying to eat for about ten minutes now. He reaches down to scoop him off the floor before he can get anywhere near mad about his pitiful reach.

"Those are mine," he warns him, setting him down, but Matteo scoops up a handful of the things that's nearly as big as the entire pile. So much for his crackers.

"Seeing you with a child is like watching a dog walk around on its hind legs," Icarus says flatly, but he's still curiously observing as if its the most fascinating thing he's ever been given permission to watch.

"That would be an Academy thing," Dimara says. "You learn to deal with kids or the kids deal with you."

"I was one of the kids dealing it out."

"How old? Under ten?"

"Seven when I started living there."

"So Valiant had you, then?"

He nods, and Dimara makes a face, something a tad upset, before she turns back to whatever she was doing, narrowly avoiding treading on one of Rina's feet. It's true, about the kids and how you deal with them, but the whole thing is curious. She may have been much older but the two of them were there at the same time.

And they both watched it burn down, too.

Matteo goes wiggling about on his lap in search of more crackers even though he's the one that's gone and eaten them all. He loops an arm around him to hold him still while Icarus stares at him like he's having an out of body experience, just tapping into the top layer of whatever the fuck it really was that you could call Soran's childhood. You deal with them or they deal with you, that's the reality. He learned how to deal.

And he's good at it. Dealing, adapting, living.

That's the name of the game with the hand he was dealt.

—

Ria likes it here better than she thinks she's liked most places.

The Capitol was too much, and Three most of the times was too little. This, arguably, is the smallest of the bunch, but it feels like more. It's a safe in-between. You can actually go outside at night, or any time of the day really, without feeling like something bad is going to happen.

If _they're_ the worst that can happen out here, then what is there to fear, really? She's done with being scared.

And it's been several days now, maybe even a week. She's had so little to stress or worry about that she's almost lost track of time. There's still the matter of the future and where exactly in this place they're going to settle down, but that's not a pressing matter like her own death was.

It's been too long, like she said, and Ria wants to see the ocean.

She's never seen it before. Her parents, the dedicated hard-workers they were, never got to be the vacationing type. If they were it was weekend camping trips or nightly stays in an adjacent city. Never far enough where they had to worry about getting back at a moment's notice. Ria had been fine with that, back then. Most of the time she hadn't wanted to go anyway.

But this is home now, her life for the immediate future, and she wants to see it. She's been hearing it for days.

The dunes begin not far from the last row of houses, tall waving grass turning to just a bit of sand. She hauls herself up the first of them and crests the top of it panting like she just ran a marathon, her legs burning from top to bottom.

But there's the ocean, and that's a reward in itself.

The sun only has a few more minutes here, and then it's going to sink below the horizon. The water looks like it's on fire in every direction, the sky cast in shades of orange and red. It's as far as the eye can see no matter which way she looks. It's somehow nicer than she expected, with the gentle sound of the waves and the birds and the grass tickling at her ankles.

"That hill was brutal," Tarquin announces, joining her at the top of it. Unlike her he continues a few paces forward, where the grass ends and the sand properly begins, and kicks off his shoes. "Enjoying the view?"

He said he might come after her, but a little smile comes to her face at the thought that he actually did.

"It's nice."

Tarquin continues on his way, picking up his shoes into one hand. "C'mon."

She watches his retreating back. "Are you going to push me in?"

"I'm not Soran or Emmi, so no," he says over his shoulder. "Come on!"

She does. She toes off her own shoes and follows him through the sand, all the way down the beach and to the water's edge, where the tide rises almost all the way to their feet. It's just _nice_. There's no better way to describe it.

And if she does happen to stumble in up to her knees, it's no one's fault but her own.

—

"Just come with me," Emmi insists.

Tarquin gives her a suspicious look. She's been trying this for the past hour, at least. Since they've gradually started to acquire more things and find homes for them he's at least tried to get his life-semi organized, but it's difficult when someone intervenes every five minutes.

To be honest, he had thought she left. The door kept opening and closing, but she wasn't coming up to bug him.

Or at least she hadn't, until now.

"Why?" he asks finally.

"I think you'll appreciate it more than anyone else save for Ria, maybe, but I can't find her. So I'm going to show you instead."

Okay, that's not suspicious at all. It says something about the trust he has in her that he follows her downstairs at all, outside and around the back of the house to the ramshackle shed tucked away at the edge of the trees. It's a place that she could very easily bury him in and no one would ever find him unless they really wanted to.

Emmi pulls the door open with a grating screech, peeking inside. "Okay good, they're still here."

He leans around her to get a look despite his better judgement trying to get him away from his probable burial spot. There's a small, fluffy pile tucked away in the corner right up against the door, and on top of that it's squeaking occasionally. At first he thinks it's one thing, but the longer he looks the more it turns into distinct movement, each one twitching on its own.

"Really?" he asks, slightly incredulous. As if this fluffy pile of kittens just turned up at their back door. Is that a coincidence he should hold dear? He had missed that level of company from Nyx, the quiet, food-thievery kind. That was the best type to have.

"Well, I haven't seen mom in the past day," Emmi says. "And there's five of them. So."

There really is. He can make out each one in the shadows though they still look as if they're one, a mish-mash of different colors, tiny bodies rising and falling in sleep.

And there's five of them.

If that's not fate, he doesn't know what is.

—

She's had a grand total of a day and a half in what she's considering _her house_.

It's small but not too small, and it's tucked onto the end of a quaint little block of houses with a clear path to the water at the very end of them all, complete with trees on either side. She very much feels like she's in some oddity fairytale if the protagonists were ever runaway, supposed to be dead murderers.

So not really a fairy tale at all.

She hears someone fiddling with the door long before anyone gets inside; it sounds like whoever it is experiences more trouble than they're going to admit. There's a whole handful of people out there who could get in silently and untroubled, namely Meritt fucking Trevall. She still hasn't properly absorbed the fact that somewhere in this little town is the brother of the woman dead at their hands. She'll cross that bridge when she comes to it.

Eventually growing tired of the noise, she pulls open the door unceremoniously. Icarus stumbles forward a foot and nearly crashes into her, hand raised as if he was fiddling about with her lock.

Figures.

"Having fun?" she asks.

"The most," he responds. "Hey, happy birthday. Tarquin didn't beat me, did he? He said he was going to beat me?"

Emmi eyes the clock. "He's probably not even awake. Why are _you_?"

"I just told you. I wanted to be the first."

"Could your ego not have handled coming in second?"

"Oh, absolutely not. So, happy birthday! We're attempting to bake something but you know. Give it a few hours. We're working on it."

"Yay," she deadpans. Icarus abandons her completely and nearly races back across the road, leaving her standing there in the doorway as he dives back into the house as if he just remembered leaving the oven unsupervised.

The cake, when she finally gets it six hours later, tastes absolutely like the handiwork of at least four people not knowing what they were doing, but it also doesn't taste like complete shit, so it's a win in her eyes.

Little victories, people.

—

Something arrives in a box for Icarus, several weeks later.

It's not a very big box, that's for sure. It's suspiciously unlabeled but it's given to him regardless, something about instructions and whatnot. It's just the typical process when you're supposed to be dead and not actively receiving mail.

No one else gets one, yet, he's just lucky to be the first.

It's not just one thing, but several. It's little trinkets, things from his parents house and a few that he had at the house in One, too. It's everything he was so used to seeing down to both of his parent's wedding rings, tucked away in a small box at the very bottom.

Pandora said she would do this once the entire country was done poking around in their business, he just didn't necessarily believe her. Getting all of this was one thing, getting it here was entirely different. An unmarked box not strictly addressed to him made it all the way out here because she ensured it would. Because she said so.

There's a note wrapped around the box, too. _I'm working on the rest_ , it says. _Everyone else's too_.

Icarus knows what the plan is; two odd years and they might just be able to go back, have this not all be for nothing. At that point he may just be content here; who says he'll even want to go back even if he can?

It's hard to decide how he feels about this, even worse when he looks into the box and can see everything important left of his parents in the entrapment of his arms. He wants to feel nothing on some days when he dares to think about them. Others he wants to scream and cry and beat his fists against the wall.

That's just how it goes. Soran said it a while ago now, but it's still true. They were his parents and nothing can change that.

He's coping. Breathing. Learning how to be okay with that.

And one day he will be.

—

"Can I ask you a question?" Emmi inquires.

She's sitting so close to him with her legs a dangerous few centimeters from pinning him to the couch that Soran's not sure he really has an option here that involves saying no. For someone that has her own house now several weeks out she sure spends a lot of time not staying in it when she could instead be with someone else.

He sighs, leaning back into the cushions. "Go for it."

"Do you miss your mom like I miss my mom?"

"How do you miss your mom?"

"I just do," she says. "All the time, even when I'm not thinking about it. It's different with my Dad, you know. That's more raw, more recent, so obviously it hurts more, but she just hurts all the time, you know? Like losing a limb. I would know, right?"

She's cracked a smile, so he doesn't feel totally awful in his complete avoidance of the response. Now that he's had actual time to dwell on it without worrying about anything else, there's just so much of _him_ that no one knows, that he's never been willing to offer up. At that point, when you've been alone for so long, it's self-defense. People, especially in One's fucked up hell of a Career system, took advantage of you if you didn't.

"It's weird, I guess," he says. "I was a lot younger than you. Sometimes I miss her but other times when I'm thinking about it I realize I can barely remember what she sounded like. That's not my fault, but I feel like shit for it. You spend almost twelve years completely alone and your brain just goes elsewhere."

There's too much inside him, way too much for most people to handle it. It's about time he fucking got some of it _out_ , because if he keeps it in any longer he's going to explode, and someone's going to get caught when the detonation happens.

That's the facts, though. Twelve years, and he had no one and nothing. It's been literal weeks and he's said nothing back to Icarus since that night. He's said nothing leaning even vaguely interpersonal to anyone.

Emmi nudges him. "You're not _that_ weird."

"That would mean more if it was coming from someone any less mentally fucked than I am."

She kicks him harder this time, square in the thigh, but she's smiling again. He's probably off the fucking deep end - they all are, really, but he's climbing back up. Slowly but steadily.

He'll see the top one day.

—

It looks as if she's walking into a very large, very empty warehouse.

"Hello?" she calls, praying for an answer. If not she's going to feel like just a little bit of a fool. She's heard enough to think that maybe this is a good idea, that she could fit very well in a place like this. _This_ is apparently the biggest building in a fifty mile radius, and it looks mostly empty except for some storage and crates.

"Oh, so Luca was right. Three's really are all the same damn stereotype."

She whirls. One of the doors she had noticed immediately upon entry is open, now, and the doorframe is filled by a tall, thin woman who's orange hair is jarring in the midst of the mostly gray and white room. She knows her as Sentinel first, Audrel second. She really just needs to know her as a person and not as some maniacal, overly intelligent killing machine. Ria shouldn't be scared of her.

"Sorry?" she asks.

"Nothing. Luca just has annoyingly weird assumptions about basically everyone and he's infuriatingly right ninety-nine percent of the time. Unless it's about his own kid; he's usually wrong then."

"What?"

"Don't listen to me, I'm just rambling. I've spent what feels like the last seven years of my life listening to Mac talk about heart regeneration and cell-free therapy and fucking vesicles, whatever those even are, and it's driving me insane. Are you really a Three?"

"Uh," she says slowly, ignoring the truth for a moment. "Yes?"

"C'mon, then. You'll like this."

Ria thought this would be a good idea, and she's right. Audrel leads her through the door and down two flights of stairs into the earth, and into a tightly-packed, compact room that's absolutely filled to the brim with everything Ria wanted. Computers and gadgets, tables with clear works in progress, mechanical parts and tools. She wanted something she knew, and this is it.

"We mostly just use it for surveillance around town," Audrel explains. "But I like to build shit, too. I've been thinking about putting together some phones for you guys. Or whatever I get bored enough to build."

"Like a bionic arm or two?" Ria asks.

Audrel grins, teeth like a shark. " _Occasionally_. I can get you a key if you ever wanna come down here. Just be warned that Mac's asleep down here half the time and if not Ivy's usually trying to work on her own projects."

Mac's nice, from what she's experienced. Ivy's just all bright innocence, and looks so much like Audrel that it's like a jolt to the system. From what Ria understands Ivy's not related to either of them, not by blood, but they're the ones she calls mom and dad. They're family anyway, after she lost her own.

Ria nods. She wants that key and the familiarity that comes as a side deal.

If she's lucky she thinks she might get a few more things along with it.

—

And so the summer passes into autumn.

Tarquin was never much a fan of autumn before. With how busy school could get it meant putting theater more on the backburner until the next spring and summer all over again. And he liked school, don't get him wrong, but it just wasn't the same.

It's weird not going back to school like old times, and he doesn't even fully realize until September passes. There's all sorts of ways he could finish it out here, if he wanted. They've set up a school of-sorts for the kids here anyway. He just hasn't decided yet. The lack of a schedule is even stranger; he can do whatever he wants whenever he wants and no one says a single thing. He's still unsure of whether he likes the complete autonomy or not.

It's that lack of a recognizable life that almost makes him forget his birthday completely. Two hours after he wakes up, greeted by cold silence as per usual in the newly finished house, he realizes. He hasn't done a single thing and doesn't do any when he realizes, either. He's not sure what there is to do.

Seventeen's nothing special, really. You don't get any real recognition until you hit eighteen and people start calling you a viable adult.

Besides, no one knows. He's just never thought to tell anyone; a birthday was the last thing on his mind. Sure, Emmi's had seemed at least a little like a big deal, but that had been mid-summer and not long after they had gotten here. It was a reprieve from the whirlwind that their lives had been.

They're settled, now. He's on his own even if everyone else is just next door, a few paces down the road or across it.

Does he _want_ to make a big deal out of it? His parents and friends always did. He had always liked having a day like that, but things were different now. He was different now.

Then again, what else is he supposed to do other than celebrate? Sit here and think about how he wasn't supposed to make it to seventeen?

No, he's not going to do that. Whatever he decides, he's going to enjoy today, and every other day after this that he possibly can because it's just that: his decision. It's his life.

And if he wants to have a birthday, he's going to.

—

This may come as a surprise, but Meritt's not as terrifying as Emmi thought he would be.

Or maybe he is, and there's just something wrong with her.

It's probably the latter.

She's choosing to think of this in a very specific way. Her cat likes him, and he's still small enough that anyone, let alone Meritt, could squash him under one foot. Most of all the resident child in the room doesn't just like him, he _loves_ him. Emmi thinks that's mostly because it's Seren's child and the kid really didn't have a choice about it, but it's endearing. And it's hard to be fearful of Meritt when he's getting shadowed by a four year old.

Seren, for some reason, seems more terrifying now. It's the whole carefree, in your face attitude combined with the recent addition of pure unadulterated mother bear. If someone even touched a hair on Apollo's head the wrong way Emmi's pretty sure their face would be gone the next day.

Speaking of, oddly enough.

"You don't like, secretly hate me, do you?" she wonders, and Meritt looks right at her. He doesn't have to ask her what this is about.

"If I secretly did, why would I tell you?"

"Well I'd like some warning if you're going to kill me in my sleep one day."

"I've never actually done that, you know," he informs her. "I don't know why anyone thinks that."

"I have a few ideas," Seren says from the other room, tone tinged with amusement. Apollo comes tearing in now, shoes and coat and all, and just about dives into Meritt's lap. What's honest to god terrifying above all is how much he looks like Luca; sure, there's a bit of Seren there, but it's like he has a mini-me running around.

"What have you never done?" Apollo asks curiously. "Can we go outside?"

"Nothing. And sure thing."

Apollo needs no more encouragement than that to go sprinting full tilt out the door. Meritt follows at a much slower pace but eventually leaves Emmi alone in the living room. There's no way those two get into anything but mischief; Luca and Seren's son and Meritt goddamn Trevall. She's surprised the place is still standing.

"He doesn't hate you," Seren says, poking her head into the room. "Trust me."

"You sure about that?"

"Hundred percent. Carnelia went after him almost the same way she went after you, and came about as close in succeeding to both. I'd say he misses her about as much as you do."

That's to say zero, then. Sue her for feeling even a smidgen mad that she had a hand in murdering his sister. She was an awful, evil person, but she was still someone.

The cat goes winding past Seren's legs into the kitchen, snapping her out of it as Seren looks down at him. He trots away down the hall until he's out of view, but they're both staring after him.

Seren turns around. "You really named him Titan, didn't you?"

Emmi can't help the little smile that fights its way onto her face, but Seren is soon wearing a matching one.

"You know what, that's fucking fantastic," Seren decides. "I approve."

Yeah, so does she.

—

It's what he's determined is the worst day of the year.

And to think he almost forgot, too. How could he possibly forget? While he wishes he could even he couldn't get that lucky. Who's to say this is the worst one, anyway? It was last year. That doesn't mean it is forever.

Soran's been tromping around the house forever, now, or at least an hour. It's hard for someone else to match your mood when they don't know what's going on; he can sit here and mope all he wants but it's futile unless someone knows what's going on. Neither of the cats are even anywhere in sight to make him feel better, and any other time of day Calliope won't leave him alone. Forrest he's not surprised by, so much. That cat has evidently absorbed a rough half of Soran's personality and spends most of his time gnawing on Icarus' things.

Not to say Soran does that, or anything.

If he's being honest, he doesn't even know what the date was when he found out his parents are dead. Maybe that's why he's still determining this day as the worst one.

"How do you plan on celebrating become a viable adult tomorrow?" Soran asks, perching on the side of the couch that Icarus is resting against. There are so many appropriate answers someone could give to that, but he can't come up with a single one.

"It was a year ago today," he says. "And I almost forgot."

"You mean like…?"

"Yeah. Exactly that."

Soran hasn't had an overwhelmingly positive or negative reaction in any regard, which he actually appreciates. He's not sure he can handle anything right now that's too overblown in any direction.

"The day before your birthday, huh?" he says eventually. "That's a ruiner if I've ever heard one."

"You're telling me. I'm beginning to suspect she died the day before because she didn't want me spending it sitting in the hospital with her. So instead I just spent it sitting in bed feeling sorry for myself."

"Well, if that's what you wanna do tomorrow, just let me know. You know I don't care either way."

Icarus twists around to look at him. Soran never waits for people to tell him things, never asks for permission. He just _does_ things without asking and without caring if there are repercussions attached to it. It's enough to give him a heart attack at least twice a week if Soran wasn't so good at squirming his way out of things.

It seems very open-ended. He's letting Icarus decide how this day goes and how tomorrow follows it. It's been months, still, but he honestly wonders sometimes if Soran has no idea how to say the words _I love you_ so he just expresses it in every way possible without even realizing.

"I think I'm just gonna go for a walk," he says. It's starting to get bitterly cold out, and he loathes it with every fiber of his being, but he wants the air, the freedom. He might feel a little better if he has that. He grabs a jacket and gloves and even struggles his way into a pair of boots, but Soran is still sitting on the end of the couch when he's finished, just watching.

Waiting for what Icarus wants, because he doesn't know.

"Well, are you coming with me or not?" he asks. He himself had no idea what he wanted when he got up, whether he wanted to be alone or not. He knows now. It feels like that's something that he has an answer for even when everything else in the world seems so confusing.

Soran smiles, and gets up after him.

It's not confusing anymore.

—

Everyone else gets a box, at some point or other. Soran gets an envelope.

He doesn't have any family items of worth or any at all, for that matter, so a box would be pointless. The envelope is slightly worrying to say the least, even more so considering Celia walks in through the front door and drops the thing on the table with about as much subtlety as she does everything else, which is to say none at all. Everything she says or does feels akin to a brick in the face.

She leaves with no mention of her child or him ever babysitting it, though, which is nice. People have finally started to take advantage of his ability to keep a child alive for more than five minutes on his own.

There's not much room in the envelope save for the few papers inside it, clipped together. There's writing covering every inch of every paper, hand-written. Apparently though he may not be able to get a box of familial belongings he still has Pandora out there, willing to write him letters like they're from the Dark Days.

It feels like small talk, all the way through. There are a lot of details about the in effect two year plan, and it confuses him to no end. Does he think she can actually get the Presidency? Sure. She's more than capable of it.

It's the after that's worrying. She can win it all she likes, but can she really bring them back? Presidents in this country used to be able to do whatever the hell they want - that's not so much the case anymore.

And she's not invincible, though the letter may be framed that way. What he can understand from it is that she's going to try, and that's really all he can hope for.

There's something near the end about writing back; if she got a letter here unscathed then there's no doubting he could get one back. What is he supposed to say, though? Letters are for people who actually know what to write, for articulately expressed emotions.

He should though, shouldn't he? She's still trying now just as hard as she tried before this all went to shit.

God, maybe he is going soft. He should really write her back.

First he just needs to figure out what to say.

—

Ria doesn't have very many sleepless nights anymore.

She's doing a lot better; she knows they all are. But a bad night every once in a while is more of an inevitability than anything else - she had those _before_ all of this happened. If she didn't get them anymore she'd think she was permanently broken.

Despite her better judgement she finds herself heading across the road once she sees the light on. Most of the time like this she spends alone, letting herself wind back down. No one else is usually awake to join, at least not very often. Tarquin sleeps through the night now, mostly. She can't go next door to bug him.

It's stupid, the anxiety talking, but something about her walking in on whichever one of Soran or Icarus is awake at four in the morning feels like asking to get beat to death. Like they'd do it and go about their morning like nothing ever happened.

Yeah, this is the same anxiety that's keeping her awake for no clear reason that she can see.

Soran's at the stove when she inches open the door and slips inside, and Calliope is on her instantly, meowing up such a storm that she's surprised the whole town doesn't hear her. No one else even moves a muscle - Soran stays doing whatever he's focused on, and Forrest from his perch on the counter stays laser-focused on whatever food is being prepared, only his tail occasionally flopping back and forth.

Ria sheds her coat and scoops Callie up off the floor, who doesn't stop meowing until she's being held. If Ria had the gall she'd ask Icarus when their personalities merged.

She might, one day.

"Are you making a grilled cheese right now?" she asks, stepping into the kitchen.

Soran flips what is most _definitely_ a grilled cheese over in the pan on the stove. "Why does that sound like judgement?"

"It's not. Just wondering."

"Why? Do you want one?"

She doesn't say anything, because this is routine. The fact of the matter is, Ria never sits up with Tarquin this late— early, really, unless he asks. Emmi and Icarus never bother anyone else - they don't even turn the lights on. Ria wouldn't wake anyone up even if she thought she was dying.

Soran's the only one that does anything. When he's feeling the same way she's feeling right now he gets up and does something to take his mind off it. Sometimes he's pretending to read a book even if it's upside down, sometimes he's watching something on the projector. A lot of the time he's making food that she won't ask for and gives her half of it without comment. That's just how it is. They eat or they sit there in silence until one or both of them decide they're better and ready to go back to sleep, and then they do. Just like that.

Somehow, despite the odds, they've come to an agreement. They feel the same way and they sit in solidarity with it until it goes away.

It never will, not permanently. But until then she'll cross the street when she sees a light on and eat half the grilled cheese he slides across the table because that's what they do.

It feels weird to admit they have a _them_ type of thing, even if it is the silent bond of shared trauma when your own brain won't let you sleep it off.

But Ria's okay with that, oddly enough.

She's glad for it.

—

Sometimes Tarquin misses his friends so much that it hurts to breathe.

They don't even know he's alive; they think he offed himself and have no evidence to the contrary. He's hopeful that they will, one day. He'll get to hug them all again and tell them he's sorry.

For now he has this, and it's not as bad as he expected. There's more people that care than he would have anticipated.

Most of those people consist of the nine twenty-somethings whose experiences are the same but still so vastly different. They're good people who may have done terrible things the same way he did, and he's grateful to have them. They _understand_ \- not everything, but a lot of it.

And they're all so damn nice, too, if you can handle scathing remarks from Blair and Celia once in a while, or Tanis when they've given up for the day. They're good company to keep, to talk to, to spend time with.

One day Tarquin would just like to feel the same way they do. He'd like to harbor and display the pure, genuine kindness that Kelsea and Rory just always have, with their families but also with complete strangers. Kelsea hugs him all the time like she's known for years, often times when she can tell he's feeling down.

It hurts a lot, worse than other times, when he sees Vance and Rooke. Both of them didn't just bring their families into this, but an entire gaggle of friends too. They have everything Tarquin thought he would have for the rest of his life.

The thing is, though, the more time he spends there, the more he's integrated. They get used to his presence. Suddenly, Rooke's friends actually like him, almost without blinking. He thinks Vance only likes him because he agrees to let him go to town painting his house, but maybe Vance liked him all along? They're the same person in a different upbringing, a different body. Why wouldn't they get along?

Vance, most of all, has shown him that someone so similar can actually get through all of this, despite their differences. He's survived it.

And they're all doing so well, Vance included. Sure, it's been nine years, but that's not always long enough for some people. For some it takes forever.

Tarquin doesn't want his to take forever, but he no longer feels like it will. He's got shining examples of why it won't, and in a twist of fate, all of these people to bring him through it.

One day, once this is all over, they're going to get one hell of a thank you.

And Tarquin's going to get there.

—

For a long time now Emmi's had difficulty looking at herself in the mirror.

She spent so many years loving herself; it was the calling of a narcissist, but there was nothing wrong in her eyes with loving yourself, especially if no one else would. She had to put herself first.

That was the one thing she thinks Winnie got without even blinking. They prioritized themselves in the early days with the exception of each other.

Since _everything_ it's been difficult to do that. Focusing on herself most days means delving into dangerous territory, the darkest thoughts and feelings that exist in her brain. She wants to be able to look at herself in the mirror again and not hate herself.

She doesn't look totally, worryingly different. Maybe a little thinner around the face. There are scars peppered here and there across it too from that damn windshield - even her getting her arm up in time couldn't save everything. There's one at the corner of her mouth noticeable whenever she smiles, which is more often now she feels. A few scattered about her hairline. One dangerously close to her left eye.

Her body's worse, but no one's seen that. Her stomach and side is a mess of scars and extra tissue from the holes they sewed back up as best they could. It'll get better with time, that she knows. She just has to give it that.

It's her hair that she's spent the most time on, of all stupid things. The past month has been a routine of her scrubbing it out in both the shower and sink, and the pink has gradually faded from it the harder she works. She dunks her head again into the sink today and afterwards stands there until she's dried it through.

And finally, it's gone.

It's a strange feeling. She hasn't looked entirely normal in years now. For the longest time that was something to embrace, but for now Emmi just needs to be her. Nothing else. No alterations, nothing to hide behind.

Maybe one day she'll go back to it. Tarquin's certainly offered enough, though she has no idea where he'd get the stuff around here, especially with no Tycho to ask after. She has no doubt though that he'd find a way if she asked. That's all it takes. For all she knows instead of the pink it'll be purple one day, a secret little tribute. Perhaps it'll be nothing at all; she has no idea, and maybe never will if that day doesn't present itself in the future.

For now, though, she's fine with just being Emmi. Slightly scarred, less than perfect Emmi and all the baggage and bad memories that come along with her.

She had good, too. She still does.

If the purple ever comes, she thinks, it'll be on a day where it's only the good left at all.

—

"Alright, we're gonna have a talk," Icarus announces, sitting down on the back porch with a thud.

There's no one there. No one in sight, not even in earshot.

But he needs to have this talk.

He had another dream about her last night. Not even an inherently bad one, nothing like being pulled into the earth and buried alive, but it kept him up for a long while after. He hadn't had the heart to wake Soran up for something that wasn't even bad, so he had laid there and resolutely not moved, staying in utter silence until Soran had rolled over, nearly onto him, and then woken up anyway.

And he hadn't even mentioned it.

There's no forgetting something like this, but there's moving on.

"I can't really tell you to leave me alone or anything, 'cause that's my own brain," he says. "It's just not getting any better. I don't want to live the rest of my life only having the bad shit stuck in my head. It wasn't all bad."

Very little of it was bad, really. Even stuck in the hospital they had their moments, and not once did he ever regret loving her. He still doesn't.

She'd want him to be happy, right? She always told him that before.

"I don't get why people say you have to let things like this go," he continues. "I can't right? I don't want to. Who the fuck would I be if I let this go?"

There's no letting go of something that impacted you so deeply. There are parts of him now that wouldn't be the same way they are if she hadn't been in his life. For all he knows he wouldn't have been the type to survive.

"I wanna be the type of person that just lives, you know?" he asks. "I just wanna live. I don't want to be scared all the time. Every day I wake up and I'm terrified of losing every little thing I have the same way I lost you. And I don't want that to be forever."

That's not even living. He's stuck in a phase where everything in his possession turns to ashes in the palm of his hands.

Nothing has, as of late, but that hasn't changed how his brain works. He's still convinced that something is going to fade away or be taken away from him because that's how his life works. It's how it always has.

He doesn't want it to be that way anymore.

"If you'll let me, I'd just like to live," he says. And work on my own head, he wants to add, but doesn't. She can let him be and be happy for him and he can still hold onto a little piece of her and remember it.

Because there's nothing wrong with that.

He won't live in the past, but he also deserves a piece of it, too.

That very past created his hopeful future.

—

Soran's hand really does never go back to one hundred percent.

It doesn't really hurt though, either. Sometimes there's a bit of numbness, and his pinky doesn't stretch out the same as his other fingers, but you'd never be able to notice if not for the scarring on his wrist. Not that he cares about that any, but he knows who does.

Icarus will just have to get over it one day.

He thinks his two previously broken fingers still look a little crooked, too, but no amount of staring will tell him if he's right.

Icarus comes tromping up the stairs and down the hall, breezing past the bathroom door without a word. He calls him back, which only results in Icarus backtracking and then pausing in the doorway to look at him, confused.

"Do you think my fingers are crooked?"

Icarus grabs him by the wrist, rotating it back and forth. He's absolutely freezing, and he'll attribute that to his untelligence telling him it was smart to go walk around in the negatives.

He stares just as intently as Soran feels like he was. "If they are, should they not be?"

"I'm pretty sure my fingers shouldn't be crooked, no."

Of all the people to ask about this, Icarus was certainly the worst, because Icarus doesn't tend to care about the state of his hands so long as they're holdable. Blood, grime, open wounds, broken fingers - there's not much that phases him in that department.

"I'm not sure why you care," Icarus says. "Your side is way worse anyway."

"I don't."

"Alright," Icarus agrees, though it doesn't sound like he really believes it. He does a neat sidestep into the bathroom up to his back and then wiggles both of his positively glacial hands under each side of Soran's shirt. He flinches, but there's really nowhere to go except into the shower, and nothing would change even if he did.

"You're an asshole," he tells him, but Icarus seems perfectly content with the title and doesn't move an inch from where he's planted his face in the back of Soran's shoulder. He holds his hand up to the light again, but can't pick anything different apart. It's just weird, having these little differences that no one can notice, not even yourself, but that are most definitely there. The scars are the only noticeable thing.

And it's like Icarus said, the other ones are way worse anyway. The worst of them are right underneath where Icarus has chosen to lay his right hand, fingers lined up right where the knife went in, where they cut him open in the hospital while he was out. Said hands, despite his best efforts, aren't getting any warmer very fast.

Icarus lifts his head up. "Stop smiling at my misfortune."

"I'm not smiling."

"Sure you're not," he replies, removing a hand to poke at Soran's jaw even though he attempts to move his head away. "Dimples are nothing if not evidence."

He doesn't even know what he's smiling at, because it's not what Icarus has claimed. Since when does he just feel like smiling, though? Never, until now? It feels good to. It feels okay to admit that.

The scars are one thing. Those aren't going away, not ever. Not with the damage they did to him in such a short period of time.

But he's still smiling, and people can call him crazy for that, but if he is it couldn't have been that bad, right?

—

Ria, generally speaking, chooses not to ask whenever she hears something concerning.

It's a safe, very reliable option that's gotten her this far in life. Tarquin in the kitchen, or anyone for that matter, is not an exception to the rule. For some reason he seems particularly bad at it, though, too easily distracted by other things. If he's looking for a new hobby to replace theater, it's not this. But she'll let him try.

This time it's a whole string of swears, preceding the sound of awkward, hopping footsteps. It's so much that if Ria didn't know better, she'd have thought someone else joined him in there.

There's no one else there, though, just as she suspected. There is, however, blood.

She goes cold all over, still swinging herself off the couch to get a better look. She doesn't want to. There's a knife from the block between his feet; she missed that noise altogether. There's not much blood - some on the counter and a few droplets on the floor where the knife hit. There's a lot more all over his hand, what's seeping out despite his best efforts to hold it in.

Tarquin looks at her and offers a cheeky, exaggerated smile. "Can you get me a towel, or something? I won't make you do anything else."

She's way ahead of him on that. "What did you _do_?" she asks, avoiding looking to her right. She roots around for a spare drying towel and considers throwing it at him from across the island.

"Hand slipped," he explains. "Sorry. I don't think it's that bad."

If it's not that bad, then why is it bleeding the way it is? Ria doesn't even want to find out, but she also can't just throw the towel at him. She'd like to think she's evolved further than that.

The blood hasn't made her want to die on sight, so that's a good thing. That's progress. She creeps around the island towards him, avoiding the splatter on the floor.

"You're never allowed in or near a kitchen again," she warns him, keeping her eyes pinned one one of the cabinet handles instead of looking.

"Oh, come on. I'm trying. It's not bad."

"That sounds like Soran talking, and I think he'd agree with me."

"Probably," Tarquin surmises. "Give me that."

She doesn't. Ria does the last thing she wants to do and wrenches his arm off, exposing the blood that had been trapped underneath his palm and the surprisingly shallow, not very long cut in the middle of it. She loops the towel over his hand and back under before she can focus on it for too long and brings it back around until there's nothing left to see, tying off the end of it.

Tarquin stares at her. "Are you going to throw up?"

"If I do, it's not intentional."

He reaches up again and nudges at her hand repeatedly with his cleanest finger. She's still got a death-grip on the knot she's made as if she's suddenly unable to let go, but she knows why. Blood makes her nauseous enough on its own - it being _his_ blood, or any of them, really, is even worse.

Tarquin steps back from her, waiting patiently for her hand to drop. He replaces it with his own as soon as she has. The towel is covering everything now. If there wasn't some on the counter and a knife on the floor between them it would be like nothing ever happened.

There's the tiniest trickle of it on her hand, too, a single drop that must have beaded down her palm. She turns the sink on at full blast and scrubs it off.

"I'm going to see Mac real fast," Tarquin says. "I'll come right back after and clean this up. Don't worry about it."

"No, I'll do it." She takes a deep breath - it's not that much to deal with. "Just go."

He gives her a curious look, but obediently files out the door and closes it behind him. It's really nothing that bad, and if she doesn't do it the cat is going to get curious and spread it throughout the whole of the house. That she's not prepared to deal with at all.

But she dealt with this. She didn't immediately faint or run away in terror and better yet, she didn't cause it either. Or maybe she did, continuously allowing him in her kitchen. She was asking for it.

She wipes up the blood and the spray on the counter from the sink and by the time she's finished Vector is inspecting the damp floor with hugely curious yellow eyes, stepping across it gingerly as if aware of each foot being set down and the mark he might be making it.

There's no blood anymore. She got rid of it.

She's finally learned how to do that.

—

"I'm going to give you this early," Ria announces, dropping a very shoddily wrapped present practically in Tarquin's lap, and then she leaves.

Distantly, he hears the front door open and close.

"That's not how Christmas works," he says to nothing and no one in particular, but Cordelia meows at him. At least someone gets it. And it's not like he even really knows how Christmas works either. He got informed a rough month ago that they actually celebrated legitimate holidays out here, or not if you weren't interested. He's sure people elsewhere across Panem have re-adopted the traditions from before the Dark Days, but it's so sudden and nice that it's a jolt to the system.

What he does know is that you're supposed to open gifts on the actual day, not five before. The only issue now is that Ria's gone and he doesn't want to chase after her waving a present like an absolute lunatic.

He gets to work at pulling the wrapping part. Cordelia picks up the largest piece that floats to the floor and leaves with it before he can stop her, but he at least manages to stomp a foot down on the length of ribbon before she can swallow it whole.

The wrapping almost disguised the otherwise very normal shape, but it's a book. A very long, lengthy book, with a thick leather cover so heavy overall that it's no wonder it hurt when she dropped it on him.

It's old, that he can tell instantly. The cover is slightly faded and there's a place at the bottom left corner where the spine is starting to pull up.

There's something about a collection, something about Shakespeare, but he pulls the book open to the bright orange tab that's sticking out the side of it about halfway through. It's small enough that it only lines up with one bit of text, but he figures that's the only one he needs.

 _Let me be that I am and seek not to alter me._

Tarquin recognizes that. They never actually got around to tackling _Much Ado About Nothing_ , but he was one of the few that got through it before anyone ever told him to. Happy endings didn't have much of a place in plays like theirs, turns out. This one had one of the only happy endings that Shakespeare ever gave them.

There's no other tab, no dog-eared page or bookmark pointing him elsewhere in the entire collection. Just that play and its happy ending, that line in particular.

She's long gone by now, but Tarquin looks to the door as if expecting her to come back anyway.

Finding copies of all of these online was difficult enough some days - getting an actual, physical copy bound together like this, especially in relatively good shape, was practically unheard of. He has no idea where she could have gotten it, and with this lot, he probably doesn't want to.

It's a complete rarity, and she gave it to him. She wanted him to see exactly what she had; the original, unaltered version.

He sets the book down on the table, crumples up all of the paper into the trash can, and heads off to give her what it probably going to be the longest hug she's ever received in her life.

And it might just be his, too.

—

Emmi knew the rules of this.

Lay low for two years, give or take. Maybe permanently, but that was all resting on the chance that Pandora either got the Presidency or didn't. If she did, she could fix this. If she didn't then this was permanently home, which Emmi wouldn't really mind at all.

Not that she had seen any of the broadcasts, but Pandora was apparently a fantastic actor, and had the whole pretending to be dead shtick down to a science. No one knew.

Her keeping up the act also meant that she couldn't just show up here any time she liked to check in on them.

No, that was someone else's job.

Emmi knew this would be the case if this all worked out, but still. Seeing Ferrox and Cambria even _exist_ within a thousand miles of Luca just did not absorb well in her brain, but she wasn't alone in that case. No one could witness it and take it seriously. It was one thing to spend time around murderers in general when you were one anyway, and it was another to spend time with someone who had shot you in the head and nearly killed you.

But it's not like Emmi would know, or anything.

She left it alone, at that. They checked in, made sure everything was fine. They would report back to Pandora eventually, confidentially. That was it.

But Emmi had a plan. A three day in the making, goaded on by Icarus sort of plan. She had a day left, or so she thought. They were leaving tomorrow.

And then she runs directly into him. And by directly, she means _directly_.

Emmi knew the kids were here, but she hadn't seen them. The part of the plan she hadn't figured out was how to find him, exactly. She hadn't accounted for the fact that she could stumble upon him out of nowhere, and then directly into him. She collides with him in a doorway in the middle of the damn town, caught swinging herself up the steps too fast at the same time he's walking out, and contemplates dying the second she looks up and sees him.

Atlas, much to his credit, doesn't have that typical "oh, she's going to kill me, isn't she?" look on his face that most strangers do when they meet her. He looks very unperturbed at having nearly been knocked over.

"Hi," she says. All of the supposed plan just got knocked out of her. She's never hated Icarus more.

"Hi," he says back, but at least he doesn't sound like he wants to drop dead. She hates him too, while she's at it. Who cares if she doesn't know him? It's just based on the principle of him acting like this is totally normal.

"Sorry," she says. "I totally was looking, actually, I just —"

"It's fine," he interrupts, but at least smiles. "You're good. And I actually _wasn't_ looking, so no worries."

Emmi chances a look around, but there's no one in sight that she's actually worried about seeing. There's a genuine chance Icarus is hiding in a bush somewhere watching this with binoculars, but she can kill him for that later if need be.

Finally, he goes to move, and Emmi backs off the steps. "Sorry, I gotta go. Sister needs help with something. But again, sorry for nearly running you over."

Oh God, he's leaving. She's fucked this up massively, whatever this even was. And he didn't even stand a chance at bowling her over; there's a solid chance he's taller than both Soran and Icarus but he doesn't look as if he'd even hurt a fly and enjoy it.

"Hey!" she shouts after him, and he miraculously turns back around in the road to look at her again, hands stuffed into his pockets. "You're leaving tomorrow, right?"

He nods. "Why?"

"Are you coming back?"

"Every three months now, I think. You know. To check-in."

She nods too, silent. He doesn't move save to shift about on his feet, back and forth. As she watches, though, a smile appears on his face and it grows by the second. It doesn't look like something he does very often.

"Why?" he asks, voice half a laugh.

Emmi shrugs. "No reason," she says casually, turning to go. "See you in three months!"

She puts all the energy she has in herself not to turn back around, but when she goes she can hear him laughing behind her, unmoving.

To be honest, she thinks that's a sound she could get used to.

—

Icarus goes to sleep, wakes up, and in that time absolutely nothing is wrong.

It's not like it hasn't happened before. He's slept easily plenty of times. This is the first morning though that feels like complete peace when he wakes up. He's safely tucked away in bed and wearing one too many layers, away from the bitter cold and the snow that was supposed to have fallen overnight.

Even stranger yet is the fact that Soran's still here. Icarus is lying on his side, closest to the wall, but can tell he's still there and fidgeting like there's no tomorrow. Either he's just woken up and hasn't struggled his way free yet or he's feeling particularly generous with his time; he doesn't usually stick around long after he's woken up. He wasn't born to actually sit there and let himself properly rest.

"What're you doing?" Icarus mumbles, rolling over. Without opening his eyes he knows Soran's sat up some, judging by the knee he's getting to his abdomen. He tugs himself up a few inches and flops over his legs, onto Soran's chest, and then puts his head back down.

"Well," Soran says pointedly. "I _was_ relaxing."

They're both still completely boneless and sunken in too far into the mattress, so he still undoubtedly is. With some of his shoulders exposed he can feel how cold it is even through his sweater, the air frigid even with the heat cranked up.

"It's cold."

"Why do you think I'm still here?"

Neither of them should get up today, then. They have no obligations, never do. One of them at some point will have to get up to feed the cats, though Calliope is half asleep on his pillow and Forrest has taken advantage of the cracked open door to come and go as he pleases, though right now he looks very intent on wiggling his way underneath the blankets. Icarus frees a hand to lift the edge of them up and Forrest disappears into the darkness under the cover. He'll be getting his feet attacked in a minute, but he's used to it.

Soran hasn't tried to escape out from under him, and when Icarus looks up his eyes are closed again. Maybe he's more content than ever to stay here, as per Icarus' wishes. It definitely doesn't look like he's going anywhere anytime soon.

Forrest, much to his surprise, curls up in the space left between the crook of Soran's leg and Icarus' right side, nose just poking out from the blankets. He must be protesting the weather too, or else he wouldn't be so agreeable.

Icarus is in the same boat, but he's just happy, weather or not. He's happy for the calm and for the sleep, for the contentedness in him now from his toes all the way up.

Sleep is already coming back, so he closes his eyes and lets it happen. It's easy to let peace be the thing that overtakes him now.

And if that's wrong, if that's fucked up in any way, shape or form, then he doesn't care whatsoever.

—

Of course he left the damn door open.

Soran's used to these nonsense, trivial things that aren't nonsense to him. Icarus only leaves the door open because he's from money, too much of it, and was raised in a house that didn't get cold at a moment's notice, even from a two inch crack in the door.

Soran watches him for a minute. He's put on boots and draped a coat over his shoulders to do nothing more than stand at the bottom of the porch, poking his foot over and over again into the snow drift that's accumulated in front of the stairs. He's never seen this much snow in his life; One never got this bad no matter how hard it tried, and from what he knows, the Capitol was similar. Pretty, expensive people didn't tend to live in places that could get buried so easily.

He doesn't mind it. He likes the change in an otherwise static world.

Soran edges the door open further but Icarus pays him no mind, if he even notices at all. The crunch of the snow underneath his feet appears to be a sufficient distraction. Much to Soran's surprise he doesn't look disgruntled by its presence, just curiously tired from having crawled out of bed to investigate.

He steps back - he needs coffee, for this, and starts the machine before retaking his place in the doorway. Icarus has flattened enough snow to make it to the ground, and is standing in his own self-made circle, the surrounding snow up to his knees.

There must be watching eyes on him for too long; Icarus blinks in surprise when he turns around and notices their proximity to one another.

His self-awareness in correspondence to his surroundings clearly hasn't gotten any better. It's a good thing there's nothing out here threatening him.

Icarus opens his mouth. Soran isn't quite close enough to slap a hand over his mouth, so he speaks first.

"I do love you, you know," he says. "Or at least I hope you do."

Icarus' jaw clacks shut. Soran's not sure he meant that to come out; if that's the case, there's no telling what the original plan was. Something less earth-shattering, certainly, and much more tactful. Months and months later, and this is what he says?

"Sorry," he continues, unsure of what it is he's even apologizing for. He doesn't like apologizing for things.

"What are you sorry for?" Icarus asks, the very question he was dreading. He shrugs, because there's no other alternative. He's not sure what he's supposed to say. The only thing he could possibly be sorry for, realistically, is how long it took to say it, but Icarus was never mad about that.

His brain is melting down again. He can feel it about to come out of his ears.

Icarus hurries back up the steps with a smile on his face and wraps both arms around him. "Hey, relax," he says, a laugh hidden in his voice. "I did know. You never said it, but I heard you anyway. Do you get that?"

"Yeah." He thinks he does, anyhow. There's no use saying otherwise.

"So we're good, then," Icarus says. "Right?"

"Right."

Icarus kisses him, somehow still retaining warmth despite the air around him. "Love you too."

It wasn't because he didn't want to, especially not if Icarus could tell the whole time anyway. Soran knows what it feels like, but it's too easy for people to throw around. When you haven't heard those words since you were seven, maybe, you learn not to let go of them so easily. It's too frightening to do otherwise.

Icarus hugs him. He relaxes inch by inch until the tension is gone from his shoulders, until the feeling of terror is gone altogether. Nothing's wrong with this.

He can admit it. He can say it aloud. He can allow himself to have this even if the world says he doesn't deserve it, because he's never cared what they think. They're not what matters.

He's got what matters, and no one's taking that away from him.

—

Ria likes to think that Christmas was a success.

With no definition to read from it's a difficult decision that ultimately ends with some sort of satisfaction. Everyone seemed happy and alert, festive to a point. She hadn't known what was appropriately festive or not, but apparently cutting trees down was a thing. She might have to do that next year, if she could find one that would fit through the front door.

It was easy. Her stomach was still a smidgen past over-full even as she made her way back home for the night, and her eyelids were drooping, but the buzz from the day was keeping her awake.

The other four had somehow gotten out before she had, and upon realizing that a stone that felt an awful lot like dread had sunken into her gut before she had shaken it away. There wasn't a single person in this town that went out of their way to make her talk - they conversed when Ria wanted, and they didn't push otherwise. If she wanted to sit in a corner and observe for six odd hours, they would let her. It hadn't taken her very long to realize that she was alone, but instead of fleeing like her feet wanted her to she did a slow, ambling lap around the premises to confirm it.

No one was there, but she passed by the back door and the promise of a quick exit and lingered, instead. Ria allowed herself to pour another drink and snag a second sweet that she didn't have a name for and watched. People talked, people celebrated. They lived.

When she left it was only because her eyelids were drooping; it was well past midnight, and they had all been up since the crack of dawn.

She hadn't had a bad thought about this in awhile. Her mom had loved the idea of special holidays, even if they didn't get to celebrate them. Instead of that memory rearing its ugly head all she felt was contentedness - her mom would be happy that she was allowing herself to be, too.

She completes the icy trudge back to the house and unlocks the front door. Vector detaches himself from the top of the couch at her sudden arrival, stretching out his front legs. He's not the only shadow in the living room, though. Ria quickly notices four others, almost unnoticeable in the darkness. If the cat hadn't been there she's not sure she would have noticed them at all.

They came back here, instead of returning to their own houses.

She blinks, as if they'll disappear, but as predicted the silence stretches on thinner. She closes the door soundlessly behind her without so much of a flinch from any of them, all asleep. They have to have been that way for some time now. If they came here directly after leaving, and had been waiting ever since...

They may have left her to her own deceives, to the small amount of peace she had found while out, but they waited for her to return to them.

Ria waits for the surprise, but it doesn't come. They're all thoroughly out, taking up almost every bit of space in her living room. She's halfway up the stairs when she pauses, taking in the sight behind her. Even Vector has curled back up on top of the couch as if to say _this is the right place_.

And it is.

She returns to the living room, snagging a spare quilt from the hall closet, and claims the only space they've left in the armchair by the window. It doesn't seem like much, but it was deliberate. They knew what she would come back to.

That's what people do when you're theirs and they are yours.

Ria drawls the last of the curtains closed, shuttering off the stripes of light that have casted across the living room, and curls up.

In less than a minute, she's gone.

* * *

There was a routine going on, and he was aware of it.

A hole in a group of five tended to be more obvious than most things, these days. People here traveled in pairs and packs, and very rarely anything in-between. When one of a group wandered, people noticed.

He's alone for just long enough to get his thoughts going, and that's when someone finds him. Someone had the forethought to screen the back porch in, and there's a heat lamp in the corner by his feet that he could kick over if he was feeling particularly cruel towards himself.

Luckily, he's not.

It's Tarquin that comes looking, or rather the one that finds him. He could've put a bet on that and made a lot of money. There's a whole crowd of people packed into one area, and Ria couldn't move through them with the amount of ease it would take to get there first. The last he saw of Icarus he had a drink in hand, though he looked gleeful about it, and if he wanted to make even more money he could clearly bring to mind an image of Emmi practically pouring liquor down his throat to see how bad she could get him before Soran had noticed.

But oh, Soran had noticed. He had beaten her to that punch.

It's a lot in there. He's used to it by now. He wanted a few minutes to himself and has taken twenty, now, the notebook and pen consuming almost fifteen.

The writing hasn't been going so well, but he was trying.

"Emmi is doing unspeakable things to Icarus' alcohol tolerance," Tarquin says, instead of asking what he's doing. It's pretty obvious.

"What tolerance?"

Tarquin hums - probably agreement, and there goes a handful of cash Soran could've made tonight. The one and only time the five of them had gotten anywhere near trashed together was more like the four of them, because he's pretty sure Ria had spent half the night going all watchful guardian on them before they had blacked out.

He was only pretty sure because he couldn't actually remember. You'd think he'd know better.

"You good?" Tarquin asks. He hasn't invited himself to sit down.

He nods. Tarquin watches him for a moment as if searching for a lie that doesn't exist before disappearing back into the house. The noise and the bodies swallow him whole.

Ria's next, about ten minutes later, although he can feel how different it is. Tarquin told her where he was, and she hasn't come to check on him, or at least that wasn't her sole intention.

She _does_ sit down and curls both legs underneath herself, nursing a glass between both hands. If he's going strong on the bets, it's not alcohol. Not when everyone else has tipped off that ledge already. The whole celebratory thing is starting to grate on him, but it's not entirely awful. He just wanted some time out here with no one else around.

Ria doesn't count in that way. Even though it _sounds_ harsh it isn't meant to be - she can tell if he wants to talk, and if he does, she speaks up. For now she's silent, and lets him scribble away a few more lines and then cross things out. Five minutes later and he's made it almost no further and has only a fractured beginning, if you could even call it that.

 _Yes, I'm trying to write something. If you could excuse all of this for future reference and never address it again, whether it's in writing back or you have the unfortunate luck to see my face again, please don't._

 _Before we get any further I'd like to clarify that I've never done this before, and I'm only doing it because I feel bad. Are you proud of that? You made me feel bad enough to write you something back. Congratulations._

He sighs. "You know, if I ever finish this goddamn thing, you're gonna have to proofread it."

"Me?"

"Well, no one else is here," he says with a shrug. That's what he says, but what he really means is that she's the only one who will just look at it and okay it rather than pick through it with a fine tooth comb and wield every other thing he says in it against him one day. If Icarus even tries to read it before it's done he's pitching it in the fireplace at home.

She nods, agreeing easily. "Do you need anything?" she asks, getting to her feet. She's taken up the time she needed away from the crowd, and she's going back in. He's weirdly, dumbly proud of her for that.

"A writing lesson."

"I'll ask around," she tosses over her shoulder, but she won't. They both know that.

It's more minutes than he thought until the next one. Emmi comes ripping out of the back door with all the force of a hurricane and then nearly runs into his chair. She's shouting at someone still in the house, laughter a breathless afterthought. Happiness is a good look on just about anyone, turns out.

There's no formal introduction to her sudden presence. She leans over and punches him in the shoulder instead. "Why are you sitting out here?"

"Why are _you_?"

"And I thought you didn't like rhetorical questions," she throws back. She drops into Ria's unoccupied chair and slings her feet up into his lap. He doesn't move them.

"It wasn't rhetorical."

He's got that insane, stupid urge to be blindly curious again. Tarquin and Ria he gets, but her, especially her fuelled by any amount of alcohol, is not someone he expected to come check on him. He's surprised she even noticed he was gone.

Emmi grins. "What, do you want me to admit that _I love you_? That I _care about your well-being_? The audacity. Does that make you happy?"

"Overjoyed," he says flatly. She leans over to hit him again, but with her clumsy aim and her shorter reach, this time he's able to lean away before she can do any damage. With Icarus on pace with her drinking he's probably telling her everything and anything about their personal life, judging by her previous statement.

He's less mad about it than he thought he would be.

She wiggles a hand out. "Can I see?"

"No."

She accepts that. "One day?"

"Maybe."

It's a likely no. Icarus is less driven to make fun of him these days, at least about anything they consider remotely serious, so she's the last one on the list of people he's giving this to when he's done. Emmi, however, will take every word he writes and make a noose out of them. Whenever he steps too far out of line she'll choke him and brings him back in.

He's never been glad to have someone to keep him in line.

Not until now, anyway.

"Do you, really?" she asks. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what it is she's asking after.

"I wouldn't lie to him."

She nods, but looks pleased by the indirect answer regardless. She leans back into the chair, something faraway in her eyes for a long moment. Ideally he'd like to blame it on the alcohol, but it's not that. They don't talk about this. At this point it's unspoken.

He lets her stew for a few minutes, lets her get lost in herself. He writes as much as he can in that time, and more words come pouring out of him than he thought capable. He's just writing and not thinking.

Eventually she lifts her feet, and she grabs the edge of the chair to pull herself up, steady. He nudges a leg out to keep her from stumbling.

"You're going to miss it," she says.

"Miss what? The new year?"

"Yeah."

"I'll be sitting right here," he says, with an exaggerated point to the chair. "Won't miss anything."

It's just another second, minute, day. Another year. He doesn't care when or what it is - he's just grateful to be alive.

Emmi looks down, and nudges him one last time. "You want me to go get him?"

"You won't need to."

She considers that, nods in agreement, and then disappears. At least she can hold her alcohol; he can't say the same about someone else.

He reads over the slew of rather tragic words he got out in Emmi's presence, the whole lot of them. It's more than he ever expected to get out, and on top of that he'd like to think they're even slightly articulate. He really is trying, at least for something that resembles decency and an appropriate human response. It's hard for someone who often times doesn't know what that is, but he's learning.

He's learning a lot.

 _You asked if we were okay - we are. I think we are, at least. We're learning how to be. It's not bad out here, if that's what you were wondering. You wouldn't have sent us out here if you thought it was bad, so trust in that, at least. It's cold as hell, but we're used to it now. It was nice in the summer, so I don't think anybody minds._

 _If you don't have a heart attack and die at the sight of this letter (preferably don't) then you'll have to let me know how the whole Presidential campaign thing is going. We got a rough three and a half news channels out here and they're all local, so we don't know much, and I don't think Luca tells us everything. He probably doesn't trust us. Or me. Who knows._

 _Seriously, you don't need to worry about us. You have enough to worry about on your end, and you've got cameras following your every move. They'll start asking questions if you looked concerned too often. Just pretend it's the baby, or something. I'm sure they'll believe that. Let me know how the damn thing turns out, though, and don't let it turn out at all like me. You've got less than two years to influence it before it maybe meets me, so. Get on that._

On second thought, Soran crosses out all of the _it_ parts and fits in a nice her/him instead. He doesn't want to get chastised through a letter, across the country.

He starts on the next paragraph, and the door creaks open. He doesn't move, letting himself read through it.

 _Not going to lie, and you'd somehow see through it even if I did, but I was worried about this place at first. Or maybe about how everyone was going to take it, but like I said, we're good. I'm getting more and more confident about that with every day._

Icarus drapes his arms over his shoulders from behind, propping his chin up. Soran jabs him with the pen cap without thinking.

"You having fun out here?"

"The most."

"Come back inside, then," Icarus presses. He can smell the alcohol on him, but considering he made it out here in one piece, apparently unassisted, he can't actually be that bad off. Isn't that the most newsworthy thing of the night so far.

"I will. I think I'm going to finish this first."

"Really?"

"Mhm."

Icarus says nothing to that, tipping his face to hide in the crook of Soran's shoulders. He's got him so thoroughly trapped in the chair he can barely move his arms, let alone move the pen to write anymore.

He sighs. "You're going to be the death of me."

"Probably," Icarus accepts with a mumble. "But you love me, so that's alright."

"I do," he agrees. "Though I'm beginning to regret that decision."

Icarus' face sours - he feels it, although he can't see it, and nudges him gently before he can take that too seriously and start crying on him or something equally dramatic. Soran's not in the mood to spend another emotional night on their bathroom floor or anyone else's for that matter, not now and preferably never again.

"Alright, I'll let you finish it," Icarus says, stepping away. "I'm coming back out here in five mintues to kiss you, though."

"Why?" he wonders.

"Because it's a _thing_ ," Icarus emphasizes, making a few vague gestures with his hands that don't explain anything at all. "See you in five minutes."

Soran doesn't even know why he's bothering to leave when he's going to go stand inside the door for five minutes, _maybe_ , more likely closer to four and a half, before he comes back out to do it.

He's got a rough four and a half to finish this, though, before he's distracted by something else. Less, now.

He writes whatever he can get out. He'll cross things out later if he has to, rip the makeshift letter in two if it's that bad. Right now it's about whatever words come to mind, whichever ones feel the most honest. It's a policy he had never adhered to before, but now it feels natural. It feels like he's never told a lie in his life.

Icarus is back out in even less time than Soran predicted. Money lost, there. He scribbles out something that constitutes as last words, he hopes, before Icarus grabs him by the shirt and hauls him out of the chair to kiss him. Someone's shouting in the house, but it's exuberant and cheerful and even slightly annoying, but not really. He ignores it. He's gotten cold out here, and Icarus is stunningly warm, fueled by the packed bodies in the house and the alcohol swimming in his veins. The combination when they meet in the middle is something that feels too close to perfect for two people that aren't.

They aren't, but it feels like they could be. It doesn't matter how delusional the thought is.

When he's able to pull away long enough to glance at the clock through the back window, it's ticked over to midnight.

"We've got another year," Icarus says, lips brushing against his jaw.

Another year means more after that. It means a continued life, even if it never gets to perfect. It doesn't have to be.

Soran scoops up the notebook where he abandoned it on the chair. The pen is long gone; it's a good thing he wrangled an ending out of himself while he still could, because it's fled from his hands and his brain and may not be making a reappearance.

Icarus satiates his own curiosity and leaves his eyes where they are, half-closed in contentment, when Soran lifts the notebook beyond his shoulder to look it over. He reads it through more than once, somehow satisfied with what he finds each time. There's no use changing the words.

Not when they're true.

 _Yes, I was worried. But oddly enough - and I know you'll feel some sort of sick satisfaction at this - there's hope out here too._

 _That's weird, isn't it? It's weird. But hope is everywhere around this place. You can feel it, taste it, act like the water's made out of it, whatever you want._

 _The Nine are happy here. Prometheus is happy here. And their families - God, their families. Their kids and everyone they brought along with them. There's such a stupidly high amount of hope there someone like you could look at it and die happy, I imagine. I wouldn't blame you._

 _There's hope out here. It almost makes me feel like I could be happy too._

 _One day, anyway. Don't get too emotional on me now. I won't go any deeper into the future, so I'll just leave that part unwritten for now._

 _The thing I've accepted, finally, is that there's always going to be hope. It's not going anywhere. I think for a long time I tried to deny its existence. That's what was easier for someone like me. For all of us._

 _It's here, though. It's everywhere._

 _There's always going to be hope. Don't get that twisted. Remember that, when things are bad._

 _And there's always going to be us, too._

 _But don't tell anyone I said that, hey?_

 **END.**


End file.
